The Strength of the Wolf
by tolieawake
Summary: In the end, it's only Lydia & Stiles left. With nothing else left to lose, they find a way to change it all. And Stiles may just figure out the key to stopping everything that ever went wrong - well, from Peter onwards. Because he's older & wiser (sort-of) & beginning to understand in a way that he never did before. The strength of the wolf is the pack, right? Time travel, fix-it.
1. Prologue

Stiles woke to the sight of the off-white ceiling of Beacon Hills Memorial Hospital. It was silent, in a way that had him frowning as he turned his head to the side, expecting to see the usual array of medical equipment steadily flashing away at him. It was conspicuously absent.

A burst of fear flashed through him and he struggled upright, gaze darting around the room. It was empty. No Scott hovering by his bedside. No Derek lurking in the corner, all-but-hidden from the hospital staff. No Isaac wringing his hands as he nervously shuffled in place for a moment before drawing his bad boy persona over him like the mask it was.

There was no-one there. A pang struck hard into Stiles' heart and he swallowed, hard. There wouldn't be anyone there. They could never be there again. They were all gone. Stolen from him one by one, his family, as dysfunctional and antagonistic as they'd always been.

There would be no more playful fights or silent conversations with Scott where the other boy simply seemed to _get_ him in a way that no-one else ever had. No more yelling matches with Derek when they butted heads or Derek asked him to do something that had Stiles' mind and insides screaming in terror. No more push and pull, give and take, between him and Isaac, where both pretended they weren't insanely jealous of the other.

They were all gone. Just like Erica. And Boyd. And Peter – even Peter, who had terrified and intrigued Stiles by degrees. All of them, gone.

His mind shied away from the rest of it. The information he didn't want to acknowledge. Didn't want to know. Wouldn't let himself think.

They were gone and it was only him and Lydia left. Jackson was meant to join them, but had never made it. Which meant, just Stiles and Lydia and...

Freezing, Stile stared down at his hands, as he slowly lifted them up before his face. Just him and Lydia, and they'd been desperate.

His hands were smooth, skin unblemished. A phantom twinge traced down his right pointer but as he ran his thumb down it, it met unmarred skin. No burns. No scars. No pock-marks. As though his entire history had been erased.

Well, not his _entire_ history.

Lowering his hands, Stiles turned, swinging his legs over the side of the bed and stumbling as he pushed himself upright. The floor was too far away, his legs too short. Feet tangling together in a familiar manner, Stiles flung his hands out, arms windmilling as he staggered a few short steps in order to gain his balance.

There was a mirror on the back of the hospital door. Stumbling over to it, Stiles stared.

Wide brown eyes stared back at him. His lips were parted, in shock or awe or just plain fear, he wasn't entirely sure. The scars were gone. Even those he hadn't minded too much at first, thinking they made him rugged.

Reaching up a trembling hand, Stiles ran it down his face. His fourteen-year-old face. He was still a gangly twig of a boy, but not quite as gangly as he would get, still going through that horrible growth spurt that had left his arms and legs and joints aching and thrown his already failing coordination even more off-kilter.

A small smile twitched at the edges of his lips, before peeling them back from his teeth in a half-smile, half-snarl.

It had worked.

It had worked!


	2. I guess I kinda needed it

WARNING: there is mention of a panic attack in this chapter. Please treat with caution if this could be triggering for you.  
Also, please be aware that the depiction of the panic attack here is fictional, I have been fortunate enough to not have personal experience in this area, and therefore have written from my understanding of but not experience with, them.

* * *

Following fast on the heels of his elation, Stiles felt the panic rising in his throat, his breath coming hard and fast, hands shaking. Stumbling backwards, he felt himself hit the bed before sliding down to collapse against the floor, tremours wracking his frame.

Biting his lip – until he tasted blood – Stile tried to push the fear back.

Because it had worked, just, not in the way he expected. He was too far back and yet not far enough. What was he meant to do _here_? Why _now_?

The door pushed open. Looking up, Stiles found himself staring at his father. His father! Younger and healthier and yet more broken all at once (his mind shied away from the last time he had seen his father, the knowledge contained therein).

"Stiles," the Sheriff said, sinking down to his knees beside his son and drawing him forward into a hug. He didn't know, Stiles realised distantly. His dad didn't know yet. Didn't know any of it. Didn't know that Stiles was different. Didn't know that he was currently on the verge of a panic attack. Didn't know...

What was the date?

Scrambling backwards, limbs flailing, one of his arms hitting his father in the shoulder as he struggled to push himself upright and away, to know, Stiles found himself gasping.

"Stiles?" the Sheriff questioned.

"I, I," Stiles managed to get out, eyes darting around the room. But it was bare, empty. He had a vague recollection of crawling into an empty room of the hospital in the past, waking up there and feeling empty. Alone.

It had been the night his mother died.

Breath gasping, vision dimming around the edges, Stiles tried to breath. But he couldn't. His lungs froze, refusing to cooperate.

Logically, he knew what was happening, even as the terror roared through him. Knew that he was having a panic attack. His first one – and yet one of many, all at the same time.

Dimly, he could hear his father yelling, calling for someone. Frantic hands pressed against his face, drew him back into a warm embrace, but all he could do was flail and struggle. He couldn't go through this, not again. Why couldn't he have gone back just a little further? Just a little?

Or hey, even a lot. That had been the intention really. This place, this time, it had never been the intent. What was he doing there? What was he meant to do?

He was so alone.

The terror crested. He struck out, limbs flailing yet vicious. He had to get away.

* * *

Coming back to himself, Stiles found himself staring at yet another hospital room roof. There was a sluggish feeling in his limbs that suggested he'd been drugged. Sedated.

Scowling, he turned over, staring at the blinking lights on the monitors beside him. Soft beeps reassuring in a strangely familiar way. This, he knew how to deal with.

Leaning over, Stiles quickly detached himself from the machines, while silencing any protest they may have made. Pushing himself to his feet, despite the weak feeling in his limbs, he spared a single glance for the slumped figure of his father asleep in the chair by the bed, before shuffling his way out of the room and into the corridor beyond.

He didn't really know where he was going, what he was doing. He just... he needed to process things. To figure out what had gone wrong and where to go from here. This hadn't been in any of the plans they had made.

An hysterical chuckle pressed its way up his throat, but he pushed it back down resolutely. He stumbled on.

Anything to get away from that room. That reminder. The room that, while better than the first one he had woken up in, was still so wrong. So lacking in people waiting there for him – even if they claimed to hate his guts (okay, so they'd never actually said that before, but he was pretty sure it had been implied at times).

Stumbling along, letting his feet lead him wherever, Stiles started when he realised that he recognised this part of the hospital. That he knew where he was. It was here that he had crouched down to the ground as Derek and Peter...

Closing his eyes, he shuffled on. It was night, the hospital quiet yet humming that way hospitals are. Full of beeps and chirps and the soft sound of people in pain.

Stiles entered the room, stumbling forward and climbing up onto the bed, curling up onto it and the around the figure there. He just needed to think.

* * *

Morning brought a bright splash of sunlight washing over Stiles' face. Grumbling, he rolled to his side, instinctively trying to bury his face in the body beside him, sleepily wondering who he had ended up next to this time.

He froze. Because that wasn't Lydia, and there was no-one else left. In fact, the body was too stiff to have been any of the others. Lifting his head, Stiles gasped, staring down at Peter's face. Peter's burnt and _catatonic_ face.

They'd been so alone and so desperate, so they'd tried...

And it had worked, even if it was never supposed to work this way.

Pushing himself upright, Stiles took in his surroundings. He remembered, vaguely, wandering through the hospital the night before after his panic attack. Just wandering, trying to get his mind to accept what had happened to him.

He never would have thought that his subconscious would have brought him here, and yet...

And yet, it made perfect sense, in a way.

"Hey Peter," he said, shuffling backwards so that his back was resting against the headboard, side pressed up along Peter's. "Sorry to just kinda pile on you last night with warning." He chuckled softly, ignoring the tears that trailed down his face. "I guess I kinda needed it. Maybe you needed it, too."

He glanced down, but Peter didn't say anything. Didn't move. Didn't react at all. Not surprising. It was two years, thereabouts, before Peter would be well enough to rise from his coma. To go out into the woods and...

Sighing, Stiles leant, staring up at the ceiling. "Did you know that most people believe that those in comas can still hear what you say to them?" His lips pulled back once more in a half-smile, half-snarl. "So, guess what, you get to hear my dulcet tones as I babble and there's nothing you can do to stop me. Unless, of course" he added, with a magnanimous gesture towards Peter's body, "you want to come out of your coma earlier than last time. A bit saner, too, that would help."

Outside the room, the sounds of the hospital waking up drifted in. "I guess I should probably go back," Stiles said. "Find the room I'm meant to be in and slip into bed before Dad notices I'm missing." He chuckled. "It would freak him out to find me missing, especially so soon after... Well, let's just say that I'm currently worried I'm both too upset and not upset enough." He scrubbed furiously at his cheeks, as though trying to erase the tears from existence.

"It wasn't meant to be like this, you know," he continued. "Then again, I don't suppose anything has been the way it's supposed to be for a long time." Turning slightly, Stiles pressed himself closer to the other man. "I know you don't know me, not yet. But I know you. Sort of. Sometimes I wonder how much of you survived. Sometimes I wondered what you would have been like if I'd met you before," another expansive hand gesture to try and encompass everything he meant by that.

"Which was the point of all this, anyway," he said. "To meet you all before. Or at least, stop things from spiraling out of control. But instead, I'm here. Here in the middle. Too late to stop things. Too early to do anything to change others yet. Why here?" he asked.

There was a commotion from outside and Stiles sighed, pushing himself up from the bed. "I guess I'd better go announce my presence before they freak out too much." A wry smile twisted his lips. "I never thought I'd ever be saying this, but I've kinda missed you, Creepy Uncle Peter." Leaning over, he gave the catatonic man an awkward hug before stumbling out of the room and back down the hallway.

* * *

In the darkness, Peter felt his wolf curl and whimper, pressing back against the warmth that had brushed against him, oh so fleetingly. He didn't understand any of the what the boy had been rambling about, but inside him, his wolf whined, and for the first time in years, he thought perhaps there would eventually be an end to the darkness that pressed him down.


	3. better than no-one

Stiles made it down the corridor and around the corner before suddenly he was being grabbed and dragged into his father's embrace. For a moment he stiffened, forcing down the instinctive response to react harshly – to fight back. The result was a stumbling flail – furthered along by the fact that his limbs, his entire body, was all wrong. All _different_ to how he remembered it. All the moves he'd learnt, each punch and kick and twist, they'd been tailored for an older body and sit awkward and heavy (or perhaps light, too light) and uncoordinated in his younger self.

"Stiles," his father gasped out, drawing his hand down over Stiles' head and to his shoulders, other arm tightening his embrace.

"Uh, hey, Dad," Stiles muttered. He reached up tentatively, placing his arms around his father's waist. A small part of him thrilled at the fact that he is able to do so.

His father just tightened his embrace, not saying anything. Is it strange, Stiles wondered, that he missed his father's admonishments in that moment? The way, once the pain and guilt of their current situation faded, his father had returned to being suspicious of him (because really, when _wasn't_ Stiles up to something)?

He shook his head, pushing away those thoughts. He wouldn't help anyone by becoming a sniveling mess. Or by making things worse by acting in a way that not even grief could account for. So, instead, he just held on tightly, reveling in the fact that he was able to do so once more.

The rest of Stiles' morning passed in a blur of voices and tests and a mind-numbingly boring (and yet somehow refreshing) period of time where he simply sat and stared at one of the hospital's walls. He thought perhaps he had freaked out a number of people with his silence, but they dismissed it as natural, considering his situation.

The afternoon found him at home, stumbling upstairs and into his bedroom, only to freeze.

Staring around his room, Stiles felt a lump lodge in his throat. His eyes watered and he felt like screaming. It was, it was real. Too real. Until that moment, he had been able to take it in his stride. After all, bodily transformations (although usually not his) and Creepy Uncle Peter being alive again were really par for the course for his life.

But his room... his room was just as it had been all those years ago. _Before_.

Before everything changed. Before Peter and Scott and Derek. Before Isaac and Erica and Boyd. Before Lydia and Jackson acknowledged his existence (he doesn't count Danny in that because Danny had always admitted Stiles existed, even if they'd never really hung out before and Danny had been irritatingly uninterested in the completely epic awesomeness that was Stiles).

The books were gone. The laptop on his desk was an older model that had died and been replaced just before everything moved from _before_ to _after_.

Strangely, or perhaps not so, it was the absence of the knife that had sat on his bookshelf that had Stiles stumbling over to collapse on his bed. He knew without looking (although he did that, too, just to be sure), that everything was gone. The mountain ash, the wolfsbane, the industrial-sized first aid kit. Everything.

Shivering, Stiles drew his arms around himself as he felt the panic licking at his insides once more. He was alone.

Sure, Scott wasn't far away, and there was no doubt in his mind that, should he call, Scott would come running, especially considering what had happened. But he wouldn't be the Scott from _after_. He was still the Scott from _before_. And while a part of Stiles thrilled at that knowledge, another, more selfish part, wanted his Scott back.

The one who would understand what he was going through without Stiles having to say anything. The one who understood what it meant to have lived through _after_ (even though, really, Scott hadn't, but Stiles didn't like thinking about that).

He must have been sitting there for longer than he thought, because suddenly his door was swinging open gently, his father sticking it in.

"I, uh, I've gotta go back to the hospital for a little bit," he said, giving Stiles an apologetic look. "There's -"

"I'll come with you," Stiles interrupted, pushing himself up to his feet. His father frowned, but didn't comment, just nodding and stepping back to let Stiles exit his room.

* * *

The hospital was just as it had always been, and yet different. His memories were distorted and jumbled, trying to make sense of things, to sort out _now_ and _before_ and _after_.

Once he was in the hospital, Stiles wasn't sure what he was going to do. He sat down in one of the waiting chairs while his father spoke quietly to one of the doctors. Stiles wasn't sure why they were there, what there could possibly be left to be dealt with, but he didn't ask, either.

Restlessness was a part of him, and so he didn't think anything of it when he pushed himself to his feet to go for a walk. No-one else seemed to, either.

It wasn't until he found himself in a familiar corridor once more that Stiles admitted to himself just where he was going. The reason why he'd jumped at the chance to return to the hospital.

"I guess you're better than no-one, right?" he asked rhetorically as he pushed open Peter's door, stepping into the room. There was no reply, but Stiles didn't expect one. Sighing, he pushed the door closed behind him before sulking over towards the bed, coming to a stop beside it.

It was strange, to see Peter like that. He was used to a Peter with perfect skin, unblemished in a way Stiles had never thought about before. Never dwelt too much on what Peter had looked like before his werewolf healing had wiped all the scars away. Sure, Stiles had seen it, when he'd first met Peter, but it had been such a short amount of time, and his attention had been taken up with far too many other things (such as trying to stay alive and out of the way of the crazy werewolf fight going on around him) to think much on it.

Staring down at Peter, at the burns covering half his face and winding their way down under his hospital gown (Stiles morbidly wondered how far they went, before grimacing and deciding he didn't actually want to know, didn't want to know just how much Peter had suffered), Stiles allowed himself to think, for a moment, about just how much Peter had lost.

The next moment, he was crawling up onto the end of the bed, settling down so that his crossed legs rested over Peter's lower legs and feet (a brief thought was spared for whether it was good for him to do that to Peter or not, but meh, werewolf healing, he decided fairly quickly).

"So, it's me again," he muttered, reaching out to pluck absently at the blanket covering Peter. "Guess you didn't expect to see, or, well, hear, me again, huh?" Peter continued to stare blankly at the ceiling. Heaving a sigh, Stiles flopped sideways (so he was never very good at sitting like a normal person). One of his hands came up to rest against Peter's knee through the blanket.

How many times, he wondered, had he sat or lain like that with one of the others (they denied it, but he was certain that physical touch was even more vital to a werewolf's wellbeing than it was for humans), even with Creepy Uncle Peter, sometimes. Just being pack. Reassuring each other that they were there. They were alive.

"My mother died yesterday," he said, "or five years, three months and two days ago. Thereabouts." He let out a stilted chuckle, pillowing his head on his free arm. "She had cancer. Fought hard. Just... not hard enough to actually win. But maybe, sometimes, it doesn't matter how hard you fight, or what you do, there's just no way you can win, anyway.

"And no, I'm not just talking about my mother." He shifted, rolling onto his back to stare up at the ceiling. "Must be boring for you, huh, staring at the ceiling all the time?" he asked. "Do they ever, you know, get you up and change the scenery for you? Can you even see? Or is it just hearing? Or maybe nothing. Maybe it's just like drifting in nothingness. Or are you even aware at all? Was it like sleeping? One moment you were burning and the next, you were awake, and insane?

"In some ways," he continued, "perhaps it's good that I came back now. I mean, it'll give me time to plan, to figure things out, right? Plus, you know, everyone's walking on eggshells around me 'cos of the whole, 'his mother just died' thing. It kinda excuses any weird reactions I might have.

"But you're probably not wondering about that. You're wondering about me. About who I am, why I'm here. To be honest, I'm not even really sure why I'm here." He sighed, giving Peter's knee beneath his hand a gentle squeeze. "I guess, despite everything, in the end, you were pack, too. And with no-one else here, or well, here, but not them, you're the best I've got.

"I figure I'm the best you've got, too, huh? Anyway, I'm Stiles. Stiles Stilinski. Yes, it's a nickname. No, I'm not going to tell you my real name. Trust me, you're better off not knowing anyway." He paused, considering how to say the next bit, before just shrugging and decided to go for it. It wasn't like Peter would be replying, anyway.

"I went back in time," he said. There, it was said. It was out there. He laughed. "I came back in time because everything went to shit." He shook his head, feeling the blanket rub against his skin through the fuzz of his buzzcut (and, oh yeah, that's right, he'd buzzed his hair when his mom's had started falling out). "In the end," he explained, licking his lips, "it was just Lydia and me left. Lydia and I," he corrected, imagining Peter's face at his poor grammar, before shaking his head once more with a fond smile.

"Everyone else was dead. Stolen from us one by one, and we were all that was left. So I guess we were a bit desperate. Desperate to change things. To make them better. To do something, anything. And we figured we had nothing to lose.

"We found this spell, in an old, cracked book that I swear must have been created centuries ago and was written in the most awful old-english you have ever read. Or maybe not, you always seemed to like old books, so perhaps you have read something worse. I mean, your place was full of books – when I finally got to see it. Still bummed about the fact that you didn't actually live in a system of underground caves because that, that would have been cool."

Pulling his scattered thoughts back, Stiles tried to focus on what he had been saying. "The spell needed an anchor. Someone to stay behind and hold it. And it needed someone to work on. Someone to go through time and change things.

"Lydia said she should stay, 'cos, well, she said I would do better at changing things than she would." He shrugged. "Whatever. We argued, of course, but in the end she got her way. She always does, you know, so, just for future reference, if Lydia wants something, just go along with it.

"So we hugged it out beforehand like the total badasses we are – actually, we kinda cried like babies, but – I can't believe I just said that!" he groaned, limbs flailing all over the place as he flung himself upright to stare down at Peter. "Right," he said. "That never gets repeated. Ever. Lydia and I were totally composed badasses." Giving a satisfied nod that his catatonic listener understood the importance of what he had said, Stiles flopped back down once more."

"Lydia cast the spell," he said, "and I woke up staring at the hospital ceiling. For a moment, I thought, perhaps, it was just another time I'd ended up in the hospital. For a moment, I expected them all to be there, you know, waiting for me to wake so they could yell at me for putting myself in danger. And just for reference, while I may have been in danger a lot, I also saved their lives a lot, okay. Like, all the time. So they had no room to talk." Silence descended on the room as Stiles let his voice drift off.

"Somehow," he said, "I ended up in here last night. Subconscious really. I mean, I don't usually wander around looking for the rooms of coma patients to hang out in. And here I am again. Which much be just thrilling for you, I bet you haven't had such scintillating conversation in years." Grinning, Stiles rolled onto his side so that he could prop himself up on his elbow and stare at Peter.

At that moment, the door to the room opened, a nurse stepping inside. Stiles recognised her vaguely – he recognised most of the hospital staff in one way or another. Things like that happened when you spent all your free time at the hospital for years while your mother slowly lost her fight with cancer.

"What?" the nurse gasped out.

Grimacing, Stiles pushed himself off the bed, stumbling as he did so. "Sorry," he said. "Sorry, I just."

Her shocked gaze softened, and she sighed. "Needed to talk?" she asked.

Stiles paused. He supposed to had. Needed to talk, that is. And being catatonic, Peter wouldn't be sharing his secrets with anyone else. But it was more than that. He shrugged, chewing on his bottom lip as he stared over at her. He wasn't family (that the hospital knew or would recognise), had no reason to be in there.

"Sometimes," the nurse, (Carrie, if Stiles remembered her name right), said, "it's easier to talk to coma patients. You're certainly not the first person to do so. Although," she admitted, "you are the first person to talk to Peter, here."

Good, Stiles thought, she's given me his name. So now it won't look weird that I know who he is.

"I guess the burns put them off," Carrie continued.

Blinking, Stiles glanced back down at Peter. Admittedly, he'd stared at them at first – they were so different to what he remembered of Peter – but he didn't think he'd thought much on them after that.

Carrie, Stiles noticed, had brought Peter's dinner with her. "But Stiles," she added, "there's a fully functional chair in this room." She indicated the chair sitting in the corner and Stiles nodded – what else could he do? He was just thankful she wasn't going off at him over having been on Peter's bed. 'Cos really, he wasn't sure how he could explain that to someone not in the know.

"Yeah, sure," he agreed, glancing over at the plates she was setting up. "I'm uh, I'm just going to go," he said.

Carrie nodded. "Take care, Stiles," she said.

Nodding, Stiles stepped forward to leave the room. He couldn't help but think that he'd gotten away easy – no doubt because everyone knew about his mother. He'd have to be more careful in future. Then he stopped, spinning on his heel and leaning back over towards Peter.

"I'll see you later, Peter," he said. Carrie smiled softly as she watched him leave.

Stiles found his father near the front of the hospital, talking softly to Melissa.

"Hey kid," he said when he glanced up and saw Stiles standing there. Staring back at him, Stiles felt a lump growing in his throat. _Great, just great_, he thought. Seeing his father like that, his father of _before_, his father of just after... well, Stiles hadn't ever wanted to return this time, the time just after his mother's death.

The pain lingered in his father's eyes and around the corners of his mouth. His skin was pale, drawn, and tiredness lingered in his every movement. For a moment, Stiles wondered what he himself looked like. He hadn't looked in a mirror since that first moment after waking up in this time – he hadn't wanted to see himself, see his body, so disconnected from what his brain was telling him he should look like.

"Hey Dad," he replied. Stepped forward, and managing to trip over nothing – which, great, just great, his clumsiness was no less embarrassing or infuriating a second time around (he refused to think of the fact that he had never totally outgrown it, simply learnt to use it to his advantage against whatever they faced).

"Well, I'll let you two get home," Melissa said. She paused as she passed Stiles, reaching out to pat him on the shoulder. Stiles nodded at her, wanting to reach out and wrap her into a hug – but, well, that wasn't what he was meant to do in this time. In this time, he'd only just lost his mother, like literally only just lost her. And while he'd already spent many, many days at the McCall's, it hadn't yet reached the epic co-parenting standards that had resulted after Scott's dad (the utter douche), had left.

Each of them left with only one parent, they'd fit themselves together even further, holding tight to each other and refusing to let go, dragging their parents along for the ride. Their solid, epic friendship had turned into a brotherhood that not even werewolves or hunters or anything else that had been thrown at them had ever been able to conquer (and yeah, okay, so they totally argued and yelled at each other at times, but that, Stiles figured, was what brothers did, so he wasn't too worried about that).

Of course, once Melissa knew about Scott and the werewolves and the epic failure that seemed to follow their lives that came with all that, Stiles had become even closer to her, even as he felt guilty about the fact that his Dad didn't know. Then Dad knew, and he'd been able to accept her comfort and guidance without guilt.

Which meant that epic co-parenting turned into Stiles calling Melissa 'Mom', and Scott calling the Sheriff 'Dad'. And neither of them had felt guilty about it then – of course, that was years in the future, or the past, depending on how you looked at it (time travel really wasn't doing Stiles tenses any favours, not even in his own mind).

So Stiles simply smiled at Melissa and watched her leave, before turning back to his father.

They headed home, and Stiles found himself wracking his memory to see if there was anything he was meant to be doing. Homework, or something. He idly considered texting Scott to find out, but dismissed that idea – Scott, if he remembered right, had enough to deal with with the fact that Scott's father was currently planning to walk out on them (not that Scott knew that yet).

Groaning, Stiles rolled over on his bed. Sleep came, and with it his memories surged forward, half-perfection, half-nightmare, and all too real.

* * *

"So, I had a nightmare last night," Stiles said, pushing open the door to Peter's room and dumping his schoolbag by the wall. Kicking off his shoes, he walked over to the bed, climbing up onto the end so that he could rest against Peter's feet.

"Well, nightmares, really," he continued, shifting until he was comfortable. "Bet you didn't expect that to be my opening line." He sighed. "Thing is, can you really call them nightmares if they're real? It was back at the house, in the basement." He paused. "Should I even be talking about this with you?" Then he shrugged. "Eh, I doubt anything I say can make you worse than you were last time – not that you remember last time. Not that anyone remembers last time. Which is possibly a good thing, but it makes it hard, you know. To be the only one who remembers.

"But is it really remembering? I mean, I've gone back in time. So, to me it happened. Which means, it's my memories. I remember it. But for you, none of it has happened yet, which means, for you, it's more like prophecy or something. Looking into the future." Chewing idly on his finger, Stiles gave another shrug. "Whatever, the point is, I had this dream.

"I was standing in the middle of the basement, and it was how it looked before we convinced Derek to fix it up. All blackened and shit. Only I wasn't alone. Derek was there, chained up. Kate, the bitch, was also there." Stiles paused, staring down at his hands.

"You know," he said, "there aren't many people I actively want to kill, but I can honestly say she is one of them. I mean, I'd kill anyone who threatened the pack, no sweat. I've done it before. But Kate, Kate I'd like to hunt down and kill. Make her the prey for once." Giving himself a shake, Stiles glanced over at Peter.

"I wasn't there that time," he said. "So I suppose it really was a nightmare as opposed to a memory. But Scott described it to me. Scott, who you haven't met yet, but you will – although, this time, let's try and keep the biting to a minimum, huh? Anyway, Scott was the one who got Derek out that time. He told me about it later. About the way they'd had him strung up and the electricity and..." Stiles let his voice trail off, huffing out a breath.

"Probably not what I should be telling you," he said. "Or having you dwell on. So, something happier – happier than me being trapped and watching Kate torture Derek. Happier... right, well, before I had that dream. Nightmare. Whatever. Before that, I had another dream, or memory.

"It was in the house after it was all fixed up. After you had come back, and before we all started dying. Everyone was there. You were sitting on the couch with your stupid, extensive clothing and that stupid smirk on your face, like you know more than everyone else. Jackson and Lydia were on the other couch, not cuddling, no, 'cos that would be too plebian for them. But just sitting there, sides resting against each other.

"Scott and Allison were lying on the floor, being completely and utterly goopy together, like, you have no idea. Let me tell you, if anything, I will thoroughly enjoy my time with a non-goopy Scott while I have it. Because love turns him into the biggest sap you have ever seen.

"Erica was painting her nails, making Boyd hold the nailpolish for her, and Isaac was sprawled out near Scott and Allison, working on his homework. Derek was leaning in the doorway, just watching us all.

"I didn't want to wake up," Stiles admitted. "I liked it there, in that moment. It was so short, so brief, just a moment of normalcy, after everything we'd been through and before it all went to shit. And there I go, being morbid and gloomy again." Springing to his feet, Stiles moved over to his bag.

"I know," he said, "I've got homework to do, and you, you are a self-professed intelligent person, so you can help me with it. Besides, I figure if anything's going to get you to come out of your coma earlier, it's gotta be listening to me ramble on about trigonometry and butchering the english language as I do so."

Grinning, Stiles turned back to the bed. At that moment, the door opened behind him.

"Stiles," Carrie said, stepping inside.

"Uh, hi, Carrie," he replied, giving her a sheepish smile. "I was just gonna do some homework in here." Carrie smiled gently at him and Stiles couldn't help but think that she was imagining he'd followed his usual routine after school – biking to the hospital to visit his Mom – only to realise that she was gone and so had wandered until he ended up in Peter's room again.

It wasn't exactly true – for all that his mother had just died in this time, for Stiles it had been years. He wasn't in the habit of visiting her in the hospital anymore. But he was in the habit of seeking out other members of the pack to spend time with, so he figured that she was right in thinking that he was simply following habit.

Besides, anything that helped to not get him kicked out of Peter's room was good.

"All right, Stiles," Carrie said. "Why don't I get Carl to help me get Peter up and into his chair. That way you can sit across from each other."

Stiles nodded, watching as Carrie and Carl, another of the nurses, transferred Peter to his wheelchair. There went Stiles' plan of curling up on the bed to do his homework. Then again, perhaps that was for the best considering the reaction he was likely to get if anyone saw him like that.

Instead, Stiles did what he did best, which was talk, babbling on while Peter was moved, babbling when the nurses left, babbling as he worked on his homework. Through it all, he kept half an eye on Peter, but the other man never moved.

Stiles told himself he wasn't disappointed by that – he was two years too early for Peter to wake up – but couldn't help but wish for a pack member who could talk back to him, even if Peter was usually too sassy to handle in large doses (and hey, if Stiles secretly thought Peter's sass was actually incredibly funny, well, no-one had to know).

A shake to his shoulder woke Stiles later, to see his father leaning over him.

"Stiles," he said. "Stiles, wake up."

Blinking, Stiles shifted in his chair. He looked up to see that Peter was once more in his bed, and night had fallen outside. "I'm up," he muttered.

Stepping back, the Sheriff looked at him with a sigh. "Come on, son," he said, "let's get you home."

"M'kay," Stiles agreed with a yawn. He gathered his schoolwork, shoving it back into his bag, before stepping forward to where Peter lay, staring unblinking at the ceiling. Reaching out, Stiles rested his hand on Peter's shoulder for a moment. "I'll see you later, Peter," he said. Then he followed his father from the room.


	4. how Scott found out about Peter

The rest of the week found Stiles continually ending up at Peter's bedside, or sprawling across the end of it. He took his homework with him, and found that talking to the older man while working on it helped him to focus better.

Years of living and dealing with his ADHD had taught him many different coping methods, and provided him with the insight that he had the ability to completely and absolutely focus on something until he had exhausted all possible avenues of research on it. Even if what ended up capturing his fascination and sparking all that research wasn't exactly what he was meant to be working on.

Talking to Peter helped him to keep his focus where it was meant to be. Of course, once his homework was done, Stiles would ramble on about his day, what had happened, how many times Lydia had ignored him or Jackson had given him an evil glare or Scott and he had just managed to escape some teacher's wrath.

Peter was a good listener. At least, when he was comatose. And Stiles quickly found himself rambling freely and easily, even as he tried to stick to lighter topics – such as the trials and tribulations of being a high school student – and away from anything that might be too depressing or make Peter want revenge even more than he had the first time around.

It was friday when Stiles found his rambling discussion with (or rather at) Peter about why schools should follow a less standardised teaching system, interrupted when the Sheriff poked his head around the door once more.

"Dad!" Stiles exclaimed, flailing momentarily where he sat in his chair facing Peter (Carrie and Carl would often place Peter in his chair just before Stiles showed up).

"Stiles," his father replied, slipping into the room and looking around as he placed his hands in his pockets. "I got a call from one of the nurses to say that you've been showing up here each day after school."

"Uh, yeah, about that," Stiles began.

The Sheriff held up one hand. "If it helps," he began, before stopping as he looked over at Peter. He swallowed. "Is that Peter Hale?" he asked.

"Ye-ah?" Stiles replied, frowning at the look on his father's face. Sighing, the Sheriff ran his hand over his face, while stepping further into the room.

"What's going on Stiles?" he asked. "The nurses seem to think you've been coming here out of habit." He cringed, as did Stiles. "But they're concerned by the fact that you've kept coming. Also," he added, "they're not sure they should keep letting you in to see Peter like this when you don't know him."

This was something Stiles had thought of. "I can volunteer!" he said.

His father blinked. "Wha- Stiles?"

"I can volunteer. I mean, hospitals have volunteers, right? People who come and spend time with long-term patients? To help them, visit them, all that." He waved one hand in the air to illustrate his point. "Especially those who don't have much family left to do that for them. I'm pretty sure Peter fits into all those categories, really, and -"

"Are you basing this plan on an episode of _Smallville_?" his father asked.

"Maybe?" Stiles replied. So he'd been watching that episode of Smallville the other day, where Clark ends up volunteering at some place with old people in it and a creepy old woman tells his fortune (don't ask Stiles for anymore details than that – he was multi-tasking at the time, but he caught the basic gist of it).

The Sheriff sighed. "I saw the books," he said.

The books, right. "I got some books on comas," Stiles explained to Peter, reaching out to pat his hand. "You know me, I have to know everything about everything, right. Or at least, everything about things that interest me. And really, there's no way I can keep coming to visit you without reading up on comas. All the comas. All the variations. Everything. Did you know that -"

"Stiles," his father cut him off. Then he sighed, stepping forward and reaching out to take Peter's hand himself. Stiles raised an eyebrow (something he had, admittedly, practiced in order to be able to do so, but he figured that, considering Derek was able to have entire conversations with his eyebrows, Stiles' single eyebrow trick was well worth it). "You're not just coming here out of habit any more, are you?" The Sheriff asked.

Stiles shrugged, glancing down. He didn't want to lie to his father, had always hated it. "I spoke to Carrie," he said. "Did you know that Peter's only got two living family members left? And that they don't visit that often? Maybe once every couple months. Sometimes less." He shrugged. "I figured he could use someone visiting him. Besides, he is a good listener."

"That he is," the Sheriff agreed. "We were friends, you know." And No. Stiles had _not_ known that.

"What?" he asked, limbs flailing all over the place once more. "You knew Peter?"

"Yeah," the Sheriff replied. He sighed. "I used to come here to visit him," he said.

"You – but -" Stiles flailed again, before carefully sitting on his hands to try and keep them under control (pointedly ignoring his father's snort at his actions). "How did I not know this?" he asked.

The Sheriff shrugged. "I usually came when you were off at school or hanging out with Scott. I never thought it was something you'd be all that interested in tagging along for, honestly. Back before the fire," he said, "Peter and I would meet up maybe every couple of weeks. We weren't as close as you and Scott, but we got along okay." He sighed. "When your," his voice broke and he had to clear his throat. Stiles pretended not to see the tears in his father's eyes. "When your mother got sick, it took up all my time, looking after you and her and... I guess somewhere along the way I just stopped coming here. Not that I ever did much good, just sitting in the room – I could never talk the way you can." Stiles shrugged in reply to that.

"Still," the Sheriff continued, giving Peter's hand a squeeze. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry, Peter, I shouldn't have stopped coming." He paused, and when he continued, his voice was raw and Stiles had the feeling that perhaps his father had forgotten he was there for a moment. "I guess I didn't want to see you stuck in here and think that that could, was, happening to my wife as well."

Stiles swallowed back the tears.

"But Stiles sometimes has some good ideas," he said. He looked over at Stiles. "I'll talk to Carrie, see if I can get you visiting privileges. Myself, too, I guess. After all, if things had been different, you may have been calling him Uncle Peter by now." He gave Peter's hand another squeeze, before stepping back and heading out of the room.

Stiles gaped after him for a moment, _Uncle Peter?!_, before surging to his feet, tripping over the air, shooting Peter a glare to inform him _not_ to laugh at that, and poking his head around the door to yell to her father where he was walking down the corridor.

"Don't forget the volunteer angle!" he called.

* * *

"Dude!" Scott exclaimed, slamming his textbook down on the desk in front of Stiles, "I haven't seen you in, like, a week and a half!"

Stiles blinked, staring up at his friend. "You've seen me at school every day," he said.

"Yeah," Scott agreed, "but not after school. We usually hang out." He paused, biting his lip, anger fading from his eyes to be replaced with concern. "I mean, I, I get it. Your Mom -" cutting himself off, Scott cleared his throat. "But Stiles, you can't just cut everyone out. I'm your friend. Your best friend. I care about you, okay. And, and we don't even have to talk about it or anything. But, I'm there for you, for, whatever you need. Just, let me in."

Looking up at the earnest look on Scott's face, Stiles found himself nodding without thought. "Sure, sure, Scott," he said. He'd forgotten, for a bit there, that this Scott hadn't gone through the Allison and then pack weaning process – which is to stay, this Scott really only had Stiles, just as Stiles – in this time – really only had Scott. So Scott wasn't used to Stiles not turning to him (not that Stiles ever stopped turning to him in the future, just that, well, there were more people he could turn to, and more people who needed Scott's time, too).

So, that was how Scott found out about Peter.

* * *

"Hey Peter," Stiles called, stepping into the room. "I brought you a visitor!" He smiled brightly over at where Peter was lying in bed, staring blankly at the ceiling. "This is Scott," he explained, tugging Scott into the room after him. "I told you about him, remember? My crazy brother?"

Scott shot Stiles a startled and pleased look, but Stiles was focused on Peter. "Anyway," he continued. "I figured it was time you two met. So, Peter, Scott. Scott, Peter." As usual, Stiles' words were accompanied by a great deal of arm movements.

"Dude, what's wrong with him?" Scott asked. Frowning, Stiles shot Scott a glare.

"There's nothing _wrong_ with him," he replied (which, okay, yeah, there may be – if this Peter is just as mad as the last one, but Stiles is really hoping not). "He's just been injured."

"How?"

Stiles paused, then shrugged. He figured he couldn't keep ignoring the elephant in the room the whole time. Peter was just going to have to deal with the memories sometime. "Remember the fire at the Hale place?" he asked.

Scott gaped at him. "You mean -?"

"Yeah," Stiles agreed. He climbed up onto the end of Peter's bed, giving the older man's leg a pat. "Peter survived."

"Are you sure you should be doing that?" Scott asked, indicating where Stiles was getting himself comfortably situated.

"Sure," Stiles replied with a shrug. "I have it on good authority that physical contact can be very beneficial for coma patients."

"You went on another researching spree, didn't you?"

"Yeah."

"Okay."

And that was that. Within moments, Scott had climbed up onto the bed beside Stiles, jostling him lightly as he did so. Stiles beamed. Peter didn't react. But, a couple of hours later, Melissa was quite pleased to realise they'd both finished all their homework.

It became a routine after that. Or rather, Stiles' routine adjusted to allow for Scott as well. Scott didn't come every day after school, but he came fairly often, and if he wasn't there then Stiles would tell Peter what Scott was up to, before leaving when he was kicked out to go hang with Scott anyway and tell him about Peter (there wasn't much to tell yet, but Stiles was still hopeful).

A week later, things changed.

* * *

Banging open the door of the hospital room, Scott barged in. Glancing up, Stiles felt his mouth drop open, highlighter falling from between his lips.

"Scott?" he asked.

Pacing by the bed, Scott clenched and unclenched his fists, before rubbing his hands vigourously through his hair and scowling hard.

"I hate him," he said.

Stiles made a flaily movement to encourage his best friend to keep going.

"My father," Scott explained, "I hate him." And oh, yeah. For a bit there, Stiles had forgotten all about Scott's father and the fact that he would be leaving soon. Most likely had just left.

"What happened?" he asked.

"He's gone," Scott said. Turning to face the bed, Scott found his eyes drawn to Peter's face, tracing over the scars there. Things were still too raw for him to look directly at Stiles, but looking at Peter, he could do that. After all, it wasn't like Peter was actually going to look back. "Just gone," he continued. "Mom found all his stuff missing this morning when she got up after her night shift last night. Just... gone. No note. No warning, he just...

"He didn't even say goodbye!" he exploded, throwing his hands up in the air. "I mean, he wasn't exactly the greatest dad ever – he was never there, so I suppose in many ways, nothing's changed, but... he didn't even say goodbye." Slouching forward, Scott slunk over to the bed, where he crawled up to lean against Peter's side. Stiles shifted, making room.

"What am I supposed to do now?" Scott asked softly. "Mom's been crying all day. Her eyes are red and she just, she looks so miserable."

Reaching out, Stiles wrapped his arm around his best friend's shoulders. He didn't say anything. What could he say? We'll get through this? Your dad's a douche anyway and Melissa can do so much better? I'm here for you? Sometimes, words just weren't enough.

Leaning over, Scott rested his face against Stiles' shoulder. "I'm sorry," he said. "I shouldn't be ranting, I mean, you just lost your..." his voice trailed off.

Stiles shrugged. "So both our lives are kinda shit right now," he said. "My pain doesn't stop yours and it's not a competition, Scott. It's okay for you to be upset. Besides, that's what I'm here for, right?" He bumped Scott's shoulder with his own.

"Right," Scott agreed, bumping back.

* * *

After that, Scott became a more permanent fixture in Peter's room. Stiles didn't ask, and Scott didn't offer, but Stiles figured that Scott was able to talk to Peter about things, just as Stiles found himself telling Peter things.

"I'd forgotten about Scott's dad," he told Peter, while smoothing out the covers on the bed. "Pretty stupid, huh. You'd think something like that would be better fixed in my memory. But," he shrugged, "I forgot. I guess, I'm so used now, or was used, will be used?" he gave Peter a quizzical look before shrugging once more as he gave up on his tenses, "to Scott's dad just not being around." He sighed. "They get a divorce, you know. So, you and me, we're going to have to be ready for that. The fallout.

"Melissa will be upset for a while, which will upset Scott, but, in the end, I think it was best for them. Scott's dad was, is, a Grade-A douche. And without any redeemable qualities at all. Unlike Jackson, who is a douche but surprisingly willing to sacrifice for those he considers friends – even if he does complain about it the entire time and always claims he isn't going to, or wonders why he should, or whatever. My advice, just ignore him when he gets like that. It isn't worth listening to, and he will end up coming through for you in the end."

Stepping back from the bed, Stiles glanced up as his father came into the room.

"Hey Stiles," he said.

"Hey Dad. S'up?"

Shaking his head, the Sheriff moved over to the single chair in the room, dragging it closer to the bed and sitting in it. "Just thought I'd come visit Peter for a bit." Then he proceeded to sit down and just stare at Peter.

"Ri-ight," Stiles agreed. Giving up on his neatening of Peter's sheets, Stiles slipped back up onto the bed, which got him a rather strange look from his father. Stiles shrugged. "What?" he asked, "you took the only chair."

"You could always -" the Sheriff began, before shrugging and waving one hand, as though to tell Stiles to do whatever he wanted to. Stiles beamed at him.

"So," he asked, after another uncomfortable silence. "How was work?"

His father gave him a suspicious look. "Why?" he asked.

"Can't a son ask about his father's day at work now?" Stiles asked. He turned to Peter. "Can you believe this guy? I ask how his day was and he gets all suspicious of me."

"Some fathers," the Sheriff replied, "have nosy sons who are always up to something when they ask about work."

"Now see, that, right there, that's unfair. What if I just wanted to know how your day was? Being a concerned son and all."

"Then you would have asked about my day and not my work."

Stiles shrugged. "So, work's more interesting than just asking about your day?" he suggested. Sighing, the Sheriff leant forward, resting his elbows on his knees.

"I swear," he told Peter, "he just gets worse every year. Remember when all my stories about Stiles were about him eating dirt and worms and running around with bedsheets pretending he was a super hero?"

Stiles gaped at his face. "What?!" he screeched. "What? You – I can't believe you – Oh, that explains so much!" He snapped his mouth shut, before he said anything else, but suddenly a few of Peter's pointed comments in the future made so much more sense.

His father gave him an amused look before turning back to Peter. "Sometimes," he confided, "I wish for those days. These days, he knows how to read, and open doors by himself, and pick locks," he shot Stiles a look at that, while Stiles practiced his innocent face. The narrowing of his father's eyes suggested that it still needed some work. "Then again," his father added. "I kinda like who he is now." A pause. "And he still does the bedsheet thing."

"I do not!"

In response, the Sheriff rolled his eyes, before starting in on a series of embarrassing stories, all staring Stiles. Stiles kept interjecting, trying to assure Peter that really, that wasn't how it had happened, and it really hadn't been that bad. He didn't think he was succeeding that well in assuring Peter of any of that, but he had to try.

When it was time to leave, Stiles leant over, giving Peter a hug, before bouncing up with a, "See you later, Creepy Uncle Peter."

"Stiles!" his father said, but it was only half warning, half fond exasperation. Reaching over, he gave Peter's shoulder a squeeze, before following Stiles from the room.

* * *

In the darkness, Peter stretched, paws scratching against the nothingness around him. He breathed in deeply, drawing in scents that had quickly become familiar. Around him, he was aware of a gentle warmth growing and retreating and then growing again. It wasn't always there, and it wasn't always the same, but it always returned. In his thoughts, a single word whispered, hesitant and unsure, _Pack?_


	5. something else to look at

Looking up from where he was sorting through a number of boxes, Stiles smiled over at his father as he entered the room. Nodding to his son, the Sheriff moved away into the house to dump (secure) his gun, before returning with a frown.

"What are you doing?" he asked.

Grinning, Stiles motioned towards the items spread out around him. "I thought I'd go through some of the stuff in the attic," he said.

The Sheriff blinked. "Really?" he asked with a raised eyebrow.

Stiles shrugged. "Yeah," he agreed.

"Mmmhmmm. Funny thing, but everything strange and weird you've done lately has centered around Peter Hale."

Studiously ignoring his father, Stiles kept sifting through his current box.

"Which suggests to me," the Sheriff continued, "that this is going to be about him in some way, too."

"Okay, fine!" Stiles said, throwing his hands up in the air. "I thought, perhaps, I could find some things to help make his room a little more comfortable, welcoming, you know? 'Cos right now, there is like, nothing personal in there."

"Hmm," his father agreed, with a thoughtful nod. "Sure," he said, "take whatever you want."

Stiles glanced up with a bright grin. "Thanks, Dad!"

"However," his father continued, "you may want to consider looking at the things that were in Peter's office."

"What?"

"His office. Peter kept an office in town. After, well, after the fire, it was packed up and put into storage."

Stiles blinked, staring up at his father. "Seriously?" he asked, "how did I not know this?"

The Sheriff gave him an amused and slightly sad look. "It's not like we ever really talked about Peter in the past."

"Do you think we'd be able to get Peter's stuff?" Stiles asked. "I mean, aren't there laws about who can access it or something?"

The Sheriff sighed. "Yeah," he said. "But it's been years. Much longer without being claimed, and Peter's stuff will be absorbed by the state." Stiles grimaced at that and his father nodded in agreement. "So, I'm pretty sure I can swing getting some of the stuff out for Peter. 'Course it would be better if we could get his family to sign for it."

"His family?" Stiles asked. "You mean Derek?"

"And Laura," his added, giving Stiles another look. "But that's unlikely to happen."

"Why? Can't you just, I dunno, call them or something?"

The Sheriff shook his head. "They ran," he said. "Just up and left Beacon Hills after the fire." Stiles frowned, he knew that. Knew that Laura and Derek had left, but the way that his father was speaking about it...

"What do you mean ran?" he asked.

Sighing, the Sheriff moved over to sit down on the ground by Stiles, reaching out to wrap his arm around his shoulders. "Peter was injured," he said, "and even then, his prognosis wasn't that great. Frankly, the doctors were amazed that he survived the first night, let alone all the years since." Stiles swallowed. His mind flashed, suddenly, to the image of Peter burning, lit on fire by a molotov cocktail thrown by Stiles. He shuddered, pressing up against his father, and wondering if that was how Peter had looked after the fire. Guilt gnawed at his gut, but he pushed it aside with the ease of years of practice. He'd done what he had to do. That was what he always did.

"Laura was seventeen," his father continued, "just shy of eighteen, but not quite there yet. Derek had just turned sixteen." Stiles swallowed. He'd known, he'd always known just how young Derek had been, but it wasn't something he usually thought about. "No-one said it outright, but it was understood that there was a chance they would be split up." Stiles turned to stare at his father. The Sheriff shrugged in response. "With Laura being underage, whether or not she would be able to get emancipated or get custody of Derek if she did – or whether he would be able to be emancipated as well – was up in the air. They ran." He sighed, scrubbing one hand through his hair. "I would have fought for them," he said. "Fought to get Laura emancipated and set up as Derek's guardian. It was likley she would have been emancipated – it was only a couple of months before her birthday. But I guess they thought they couldn't take the chance. Not when it was possible Derek would be placed elsewhere. It sucks, but that's the way it is."

Stiles swallowed, imagining a young Laura and Derek. Heck, he'd never realised that Laura was that young. That she hadn't even been eighteen when it all happened. He could imagine their fright and pain and fear. Their family, their pack, had just burned to death. The only surviving member of their family other than themselves was in a coma. Slated to die by all the doctors that looked at him (Stiles supposed they had werewolf healing to be thankful for the fact that Peter was still breathing). While no-one had ever explicitly said it, Stiles had gotten the impression over the years that pack was more than just a group of people. He'd felt the pack bonds himself. Felt the pain as they were torn away one by one as the others died.

To have felt that in one go, as almost their entire pack was killed, and then to be faced with possibly being split up. Well, Stiles could understand why they ran.

"You haven't heard from them since?" he asked. Stiles wondered how much Derek and Laura (and wasn't that a strange thought – that Laura was still alive) knew about Peter. Whether they still kept in contact with him.

"No," the Sheriff replied, before, pushing himself to his feet. "Well, I'll get started on dinner, I suppose." He smiled, but it did nothing to stop the pang Stiles felt. He remembered this from the first time around. The way his father had tried so hard after his mother died to keep their small family running. The burnt dinners, and tiredness, until Stiles had decided one day to do the cooking himself. No time like the present to start, either.

"Nah, I'll do it," he said.

"Really?"

"Sure. Good life skills knowing how to cook and all that," he added, realising that he needed to say something more. That there was still a part of his father that was suspicious about his actions recently (no matter how many of them had been excused due to grief). And wasn't that a punch in the gut, to think that, second time round and he still couldn't keep his father from being suspicious.

Still, there was a difference in the way his father looked at him to the way he had looked last time. Last time (or in the future, whatever), his father had looked at him with the knowledge that Stiles was lying, and lying to cover up things that put him in danger. He hadn't wanted Stiles doing what he was. This time, well, this time it was like he was still unsure about Stiles' motives – but he had no qualms about the results. His father was pleased with what he was doing.

At least until Stiles mentioned his plans for dinner.

"Salad?" the Sheriff asked.

"Sure," Stiles agreed. "We've gotta keep you healthy, you know." He grinned, relishing in the familiar banter. His father's face quickly reminded him that it wasn't familiar – not yet. In this time, his father had yet to be put on a diet by his doctor (one that Stiles strictly enforced). There wasn't any reason for Stiles to be worried yet – and so it confused his father.

Well, he thought with a shrug, maybe he could prevent his dad's health from getting bad enough that the doctor felt the need to intervene (he ignored the fact that, at his next checkup, his father's health had been fine – the fear had never quite left him, and, well, everyone had coping mechanisms, didn't they?)

* * *

"So, I raided your office," Stiles said cheerfully as he pushed his way into Peter's room, arms full with a large cardboard box. He glanced at the empty bed and space near it where Peter usually sat, frowning, before jumping into the air with a cry and juggling the box in his arms when he noticed Peter, in his chair, situated on the other side of the room.

"Fu-flip!" he exclaimed, giving the werewolf a glare. "Seriously," he complained, "you're catatonic, how do you still manage to be creepy and almost give me heart attacks?" Moving over, he dumped the box down onto the bed.

"So," he said, "as I was saying – before you scared me half to death, which, not nice, dude. Not nice at all. You should work on that – I raided your office. I was going through some stuff at home, stuff we don't really use any more. I thought, maybe, you'd like something a bit more interesting in here than white walls." He glanced around at the bare room. There was a bed with a couple of bedside tables, and a chest of draws. That was it. "I know I'd go insane just having to look at white walls every day."

Flipping open the flaps on the box, Stiles started to pull some knick knacks out, frowning as he stared down at them. "So, I don't really know what this is," he said, holding a twisted bit of metal up to the light and turning it from side to side. "Perhaps some kind of modern art?" It looked like someone had taken a long piece of metal and twisted it around and through itself while it was still hot and mouldable. "You're probably the kind of guy who actually likes modern art."

Moving over, Stiles placed it on the top of the chest of drawers, reaching out as he passed, to rub his hand against Peter's shoulder and arm.

"Anyway, Dad found me going through things at home and suggested I try your office. Well, not your actual office – they packed that up years ago – but they kept everything from it, in storage. So Dad managed to get me permission to go in and find some things for you.

"And man – it was like a treasure trove in there! And seriously, do you, like, have enough books? 'Cos I'm not even sure the library has that many. Okay," he added generously, "in truth, I'm sure the library has more than you, but not by much. Was your office just, like, your own private library? I thought you were more into the whole technology thing – considering the shit you gave Derek about that precious laptop of yours and being modern." He grinned, digging back into the box and coming out with a large photo frame.

Pausing, Stiles stared down at it. "I wish you could talk," he said, "could tell me who everyone is in here." Pushing away from the bed, he moved over to where Peter was sitting. Biting his lip, Stiles stared down at the older man. "Okay," he muttered, "let's just hope this doesn't set you off, yeah? Just in case..."

Let his voice trail off, Stiles awkwardly climbed into Peter's lap. "This is why I haven't done this before," he explained, gripping the arms of the chair tightly to stop himself from falling off. "Your lap is hardly large enough, and if someone were to walk through that door it'd look even worse than the bed thing." Grimacing, Stiles shifted his legs, letting his knees slip to either side of Peter's legs and tightening them so that he wouldn't slide off.

"For clarification," he continued, "in case anyone ever asks, I'm doing this to try and help stop your insanity. 'Cos that was not fun, dude, and honestly, you were so much more fun once you got over most of it. So, completely innocent, manly, embracing going on here." Leaning forward, Stiles rested against Peter's chest, tucking his his head up under Peter's chin. He laughed softly.

"Man, I feel like I'm hugging my Dad, or something," he said, smile turning slightly wistful. "I wonder if we would have ever done something like this if things had been different," he murmured, "considering you really are Uncle Peter and all?" Shifting, he let his hand come up, holding the photo in front of Peter's face.

"I found this in your office," he said. "Figured it would give you something else to look at." Turning so that he could look at the photo as well, Stiles sighed, breath puffing against Peter's skin. "I know some of them, of course," he said, "and I can guess others. But, well, in the future – where I was before I ended up back here, which I'm still trying to figure out why now and not some other time, anyway – there weren't really many photos around. I wonder what happened to this one back then... Dad suggested that if we didn't do anything with your stuff soon it would go to the state, maybe that's what happened." He grimaced. "So let's do something with it, huh."

Reaching out carefully with his other hand, Stiles traced over the faces in the photo, glass cool against his fingers. It was the entire Hale family – or who Stiles assumed was the entire Hale family. They were standing in front of the house – not burnt and broken as he remembered it, but whole and bright and alive in a way that made his chest hurt.

"So, this is you," Stiles said, tapping against Peter's face. He grinned, "I bet you were just as vain then as you've always been – will be – whatever." He moved his finger. "Derek I know, of course. But, man, it's just weird seeing him so young!" Derek's face was younger, stubble-less and more open than Stiles had ever seen it, even when he'd seen the soft looks Derek would send the pack when he thought they weren't looking. "And I'm guessing this is Laura," he continued, finger moving over glossy brown hair. She was slightly older than Derek, standing angled so that her shoulder was before his – it was a stance Stiles had seen often. One wolf placing themself slightly before another as protection.

"I'm not sure about these two," he continued, tapping against the faces of two older-looking young men. They looked just old enough to be out of school, and similar enough to Derek and Laura to possibly be their siblings. Or cousins. Stiles wasn't sure just how everyone in the Hale family had been related other than pack.

"Are they brothers? Cousins?" he murmured out loud. The oldest-looking one had black hair like Derek, but blue eyes like Peter. The younger one (but not by much), had Laura's glossy brown hair, but Derek's stormy green eyes (Stiles snorted in his own mind to hear himself calling Derek's eyes stormy, he wasn't some teenage girl).

Moving on, Stiles motioned to the woman in the middle. "Talia, I guess," he said. "She just has that look, you know, Alpha." She stood tall and proud, in front of all the others as though ready to protect them all. She shared Derek's eyes and Laura's hair. Beside and slightly behind her was a man, wearing glasses and with Derek's dark hair. "And this must be Derek's Dad. Huh," Stiles murmured, "I don't actually know his name."

His finger traced back to where Peter stood, passing over him in favour of the woman beside him. "Were you married?" he asked, feeling a lump rising in his throat. "Did you lose her?" His finger tapped on the young girl, no more than two, more likely one, held in the woman's arms. "And her? Your daughter? Niece?" An older woman, hair turning from grey to white. "Mother?" The kids scattered around them, ranging from about four up to ten. "Kids?" He sighed, pressing his body more firmly against Peter's.

"I bet you miss them," he said. "I bet you miss them lots." He paused, before letting his breath out in a gust, as though releasing something from inside him. "I miss her," he said. "Well, I miss all of them, you know, the pack." He sighed. "But it feels like I shouldn't – 'cos they're all still alive in this time. But Mom – she's only just died, even though it feels like years to me. It was years," he admitted, "and it never stopped hurting. I just learnt to live with it.

"I went to her funeral, you know – again." He swallowed. "Maybe I should have told you about it at the time, but... I guess I just couldn't. It made it real somehow, you know, like she'd died all over again or something." Blinking back tears, Stiles reached up his hand to scrub angrily at them. "I'm glad I went," he said, "even if it made it too real, too close, all over again. 'Cos it meant I could say goodby, you know? Scott went with me, and Dad, and Scott's Mom... I thought Dad was going to squeeze my hand off at one stage, and, let me tell you, there was definitely some very manly crying going on.

"But still, I'm glad I got to say goodbye – again. Did you ever get to do that? I'm guessing not. What with the whole coma and insanity and then dying and coming back to life thing." He shrugged. "So, here's what we're going to do. I'm going to tap against each person in this photo, one by one, and as I do, you say goodbye to them, okay?

"I know it's not perfect, but it's all we've got, for now. And later, when you're better, and all, we'll hold a proper memorial for them, okay? Okay," he said nodding to himself. Moving his finger slowly, Stiles tapped against the faces in the photo one by one, his heart constricting at the number of taps that were needed. He hesitated by Derek and Laura's faces.

"They're not dead," he said. "So I'm not sure if you need to say goodbye to them or not." Shrugging, Stiles tapped two more times, but keeping his pause shorter.

* * *

Mind humming contentedly, Peter wished he could stretch properly, press back against the warmth, the pack, pressed against him.


	6. this is Laura Hale

WARNING: for brief, canon-compliant mentions of abuse

* * *

Dashing into Peter's room a week later – racing Scott – Stiles laughed freely. A few nearby nurses smiled, watching the boys rush past.

"Woah!" the nurse inside Peter's room called out as Stiles managed to trip over his own feet while spinning himself around the door. Arms flailing widely, he let his schoolbag drop onto the floor as he hop-skipped to try and keep his balance. Puffing and wheezing behind him, Scott laughed. Rolling his eyes at his friend, Stiles stuck his nose up in the air (once he gained his balance of course), and strode over towards Peter.

"Hey Carrie," he said, nodding to the nurse.

"Boys," Carrie replied.

Grabbing the only chair in the room, Scott dragged it over towards the bed, before flopping down into it. "You're going to kill me one day," he said, grinning over at Stiles.

From where he was, reaching over the bed to clasp Peter's hand in greeting, Stiles froze. His heart pounded and he wondered if Peter could hear it. Could smell the wash of panic and guilt that flooded him. He swallowed hard. "Yeah, sure," he said, trying for light. It mustn't have worked properly as Scott shot him a confused look.

"So, Carrie," Stiles said, turning to look at her and fishing for another conversation topic – any topic, "what are you doing for Peter today? Sheet change? Scenery change? Company?"

"You seem to have those last two covered," Carrie teased. She shook her head. "It's the first Tuesday of the month."

"So?"

"So, the first Tuesday of every month, Peter's niece and nephew ring."

Freezing for the second time in only moments, Stiles stilled his smoothing down of Peter's sheets (he liked to fiddle, okay, so what if the sheets had already been smooth before he entered?) "What?" he asked. "Derek and Laura?"

"Laura and Derek, yes," Carried replied. And oh, Stiles realised, he always said it that way, Derek and Laura – because that was how he knew them. Laura as an extension of Derek. But everyone else said it the other way around, Laura and Derek, because Laura was the oldest. Should he change the way he said their names? Did anyone even notice? And if they did, was it suspicious? Shaking off those thoughts before they could derail him even more, Stiles focused back on the conversation.

"Every first Tuesday?" he asked.

Carrie nodded. "Yeah," she said. "They try to call at least once a week." And _how_ had Stiles missed that with all his visits? How had that never come up in conversation in the past, future, whatever? "They always ask for updates on Peter," Carrie continued, "and ask to be able to just listen to him breathing." She made a confused but indulgent face at that. Stiles blinked – of course they would ask for that, he thought.

"So, what, do they talk a lot?" Stiles asked.

Carrie gave a sad smile. "They can't," she said. "We don't have enough staff to tie someone up with long phonecalls."

Stiles gaped. "But – but don't they pay you all this money to look after Peter?"

"Oh Sweetie," Carrie replied, "Peter's here on state money."

"What?" There were far too many things Stiles was finding out in this second go round that he had never known. 'But Derek drives a camaro!' he wanted to burst out with. He hoped the wind didn't change anytime soon or he'd be stuck with his face in a state of permanent shock.

"The Hales were rich, yes," Carrie said, "but they say Laura and Derek took off before things could get settled – they were too young, see, and there was a chance they would have been put in the system and split up. Then there was some strange thing with the insurance from the fire. It's all tied up and hasn't come through yet. So, the state pays for us to keep Peter here." She shrugged. "It sucks, but it's the way it is."

"But they're – they're older now," Stiles said, "surely they could get the money now?"

"I don't know," Carrie replied. "That's not my area. All I know is that they call once a week – randomly – like they're worried about anyone finding out when they're going to call, and ask about their Uncle. Then, first Tuesday of every month, they call in the afternoon and we try and get them a chance to listen to him and maybe speak for a minute or two, but that's all we can offer. I wish we could do more."

"We can," Scott said. Stiles glanced over at his brother, before grinning as he realised what Scott was getting at.

"He's right, we can," Stiles agreed. "You may not be able to, but Scott and I were just going to hang out here doing homework for the next little bit anyway. We can totally look after a longer phone call."

"Good," Carrie said, smiling broadly at them. "You are wonderful kids, you know that."

Stiles shared a glance with Scott – that wasn't something they were used to being called. Troublemakers, horrors, grey-hair causers, and 'special' children, yes, wonderful, not as much.

"Here," Carrie continued, handing over the phone. "If anyone else calls first, just ask them to hold and grab one of the staff."

"Sure," Stiles agreed, accepting the phone from her. It felt large and heavy in his hand, far more weighty than its light plastic and metal. Derek was going to call on this phone. Derek, who he'd watched die. Derek who he'd spent so long with, gone through so much with and for. Derek, who didn't even know who he was.

"So," said Scott, pulling out his schoolbooks, "what did you want to start with." Because, of course, Scott didn't realise just what that phone meant to Stiles – how could he, Stiles hadn't explained any of it to him.

Nodding, Stiles carefully placed the phone next to him on the bed, before climbing up to sit on the end, dragging his bag with him. "Whatever you like," he replied. Because really, he doubted he'd be able to pay much attention to anything.

* * *

They'd finished their English, Math and Social Studies homework before the phone rang. Jumping, Stiles simply stared down at it. Chances were, Derek was on the other end of that line. He swallowed, trying to force himself to reach out and pick it up.

"Dude," Scott said, "are you going to answer that?"

Nodding, Stiles lunged forward, suddenly eager to do so. Ignoring Scott's confused and enquiring face (and yet glad that he was there, or else it was entirely possible that, should Stiles pick up and have Derek on the phone, he would simply blurt the whole thing out to him, time travel and all – and while he loves Derek, he really does, that's not the kind of thing that he can see Derek taking in stride let alone believing him on, so he probably shouldn't do that).

"Hello?" Stiles said.

"Hi, this is Laura Hale," said a bright, cheerful voice, and Stiles found his stomach clenching for an entirely different reason. Because this was Laura – he was listening to Laura!

"Uh, hey," he said.

"Who is this?" she asked.

"Oh. Oh, right," Stiles replied. "Sorry. Sorry, I just..." Scrubbing one hand through his hair, he tried again. "My name's Stiles. I volunteer at the hospital, you know, spending time with long-term patients." Scott made a face, but Stiles waved his hand – what did Scott know, anyway, the volunteer thing was totally why they were still allowed to visit. "Carrie, the nurse? She said that you would most likely be calling, but normally she can't leave you on the phone long, 'cos, you know, lot's to do. So, Scott and I – uh, Scott volunteers with me, too. Anyway, we thought, maybe we could answer instead and that way, as we don't have to rush off and change bedsheets or bedpans or... and really, wouldn't that just be the worst part of the job, the bedpans, I mean? Because..." his voice trailed off as Scott made a cutting motion, before waving his hands frantically, letting Stiles know he'd started rambling.

"Right, sorry," he tried again. "So here I am, answering the phone!"

"You volunteer to spend time with Peter?" Laura asked.

"Yes?" Stiles asked back.

"Why?"

"Oh, well, you know, it's, he's..." Stiles waved his hands around, almost braining himself with the phone before bringing it back to his ear. "It helps," he said, deciding on honesty, and the version of events that everyone at the hospital would be familiar with. "My Mom just died, and I was in the hospital, and somehow, I ended up in Peter's room. I just... I just started talking to him, and it helped. And, I guess, since then, I've just kept coming back. Then, Dad said that he knew Peter back, before, you know. And really, something like that – why didn't he ever tell me! I could have been visiting for years! But no, the fact that, had the fire not happened, I would possibly have been calling him Uncle Peter by now was totally glossed over, and...

"Oh, right, that was pretty insensitive, huh, mentioning the fire like that. Sorry. But, well, Scott and I kinda hang out here now. Doing homework, talking, you know."

"Peter can be reassuring," Laura agreed. And Stiles wanted to scoff, and to ask her which Peter she was talking about, because the Peter he knew – full of sass and creepy and really, there was that whole insane period of his life, too, well, he wasn't sure that he would have ever labeled that Peter as reassuring. Then again, he now knew a different Peter. One who, admittedly, was silent because he had to be, but he was certainly reassuring. He wondered just how much the fire had changed him. He hoped the sass had always been there, because really, someone who got Stiles humour – that was needed in life.

"Yeah," he said simply.

"How is he?" Laura asked.

"Peter?"

"Yes," there was laughter in her voice, Stiles was sure of it.

So he poked his tongue out at her as he answered. "Oh, you know," he said, "same as usual. He spends a lot of time lying around, lazy sod. Then sometimes, he'll sit in his chair. There's a window in the room here – I don't know if you've seen it – but Carrie and I have made sure that whenever he's in his chair, he gets to look out the window. 'Cos, you know, we figure that's more interesting then staring at a blank wall.

"But we've been working on that, too. Dad got me access to the things from Peter's office – did you know he must have had, like, an entire library in there? I did not picture that for him. Anyway, I brought some of the stuff here – some knick-knacks and things, and on the weekend, Dad and Scott are going to help me move a couple of the bookcases from storage to here so that we can put up some books, too. Make it more homey and less bland and all.

"Oh, and I nabbed some things from our attic. Admittedly, most of it, when I went looking, is absolute crap that my parents must have kept out of sentimentality or some kind of 'good parent' thing, 'cos it's just loads of really horrible pictures that I drew as a child, and let me tell you, none of those are winning any awards – but I figure, hey, better than nothing right? Besides, I can't wait to see Peter's face when he wakes and realises I've plastered his room with poorly-drawn stick figures and blobs from when I was a child -"

"Not just as a child," Scott muttered, eyes cutting over to where Stiles had proudly taped up the over-zealous cartoon of Scott and Stiles being yelled at by Harris that he had drawn the previous day during class.

Laura laughed on the other end of the line and Stiles realised that she'd heard Scott. Ignoring that, he continued his rambling.

"So, anyway, personally, I think that, despite there not really being any noticeable difference, Peter is doing much better. Stop laughing Scott," he added, scowling at his friend. "And that, really, you have nothing to worry about." He left off the rest of the sentence that played out in his mind 'at least for a couple of years'.

"I'm glad," Laura said. "Thank you, Stiles."

"Uh, sure?" he asked. Really, how did you talk to someone who you only previously knew as your enemy/ally/friend's dead sister? (and yes, Stiles was well aware that he had been incredibly insensitive about all that when they'd first met Derek, he doesn't have an excuse for it beyond being a self-absorbed teenager).

"It's nice to hear that you're looking after Peter." She paused. "There's been no change?" And oh, Stiles knew that tone. He'd only heard it rarely, but he had heard it before – from Derek. Half-hopeful, half-scared. Not wanting to get her hopes up and yet hoping anyway. Because Laura, he figured, knew about werewolf healing, and hoped that, despite all the time that had passed, Peter might still heal, might still come out of it.

His heart clenched, but he stayed silent. What could he say anyway? 'Don't worry, Peter will wake up in a couple of years and go on a revenge-and-insanity-fueled killing spree unless I can somehow prevent it'?

"No," Stiles said, "no change." He looked across at Peter, propped up against the head of the bed. "But hey, you probably want to talk to him, right? So, uh, here." Shifting, Stiles moved up the bed to place the phone on the pillow next to Peter's head. "I've put the phone right by him, so, you just talk, and Scott and I will do our homework and ignore you. Yell when you've finished and I'll hang it up."

"Thank you, Stiles," Laura repeated. Blushing, Stiles moved away from the phone, back towards the end of the bed and his schoolbooks. Soft through the phone came the sound of Laura's voice, for the most part indistinct. The occasional word was loud enough to hear clearly, but Stiles was determined to do as he said he would and ignore it. Instead he focused, as much as he could, on the books spread before him.

In the background, the sound of Laura's, and then Derek's (and yes, Stiles' heart skipped a beat to hear that familiar tone, unintelligible as it was, but he firmly ignored that as well), voices hummed gently.

"Stiles!" The sound of his name, barked out in that familiar tone, had Stiles jumping, books flying off his lap and pens scattering. He yelped, one hand reaching up towards his chest even as he reacted automatically, flinging himself towards the phone.

"Derek," he answered, bringing it swiftly up towards his ear. Was it Isaac? Erica? Boyd? Were there new hunters in town? Or a new threat they hadn't dealt with before?

"We've finished," Derek said.

Blinking, Stiles willed his heart to calm down. Of course Derek wasn't calling him with a problem, to tell him about the latest threat to the pack, or request his help. This Derek didn't even know him yet.

"Right, course," he agreed. His voice was slightly breathless and he cringed, hoping Derek didn't hear it. There was a pause, silence. As crazy as it was, Stiles couldn't help but press the phone even more firmly against his ear, listening desperately to the sound of Derek's breathing.

"You can hang up now," Derek told him, and oh, Stiles could hear the scowl in that.

"Sure, Mr Grumpy Pants," he replied. "Have a good evening." Pressing the end call button, Stiles dropped the phone down onto the bed, before turning to Peter. "You know," he said, "I used to think that whole pack thing only worked properly with you wolves. That, as a human, I was somehow exempt from some of it, but... I've spent all my time since getting to this time seeking you out – because you're the only one here who feels, properly, like pack right now. The rest are pack, but not, you know? Different, possibly because they're not wolves yet. And Derek... ugh!" Throwing his hands up in the air, Stiles flopped backwards onto the bed, nudging against Peter's knee with his elbow. "He's my alpha," he said. "Or, he was. I'm not sure if he can be, now – not actually being one and all. But just to hear his voice – I didn't want to hang up.

"So I suppose it's like, a hundred times worse for you, right? I just want him to be here, to be pack, to have that security." Staring up at the ceiling, Stiles let his breath out in a rush, before suddenly sitting upright and spinning to where Scott had been sitting, heart beating rapidly in his chest.

Scott was gone.

Relaxing, Stiles patted Peter's shoulder. "Phew," he said. "For a moment there, I forgotten about Scott. If he'd heard that... anyway, he must have gone to get snacks or something. I'd better go find him and make sure he gets the right ones. Plus, you know, the vending machines around here are evil and sometimes need some careful coaxing to give up their goods. And I'd better give this back to Carrie." Grabbing the phone, he jumped down from the bed.

"Don't go anywhere," he added, "I'll be right back."

* * *

Half-asleep, Stiles dumped his bike against the bike rack at the school, half-heartedly wrapping his chain around it and hoping it held. Hiking his backpack higher up his shoulder, he stumbled towards the entrance of the school.

The familiar sound of Isaacs footsteps approached behind him and Stiles grinned, forgetting in his half-asleep state that Isaac didn't really know him yet.

Turning, Stiles opened his mouth to greet the other boy, but the words died in his throat. A large purple bruise stood out against Isaac's cheek and his eyes darted around, skittish and terrified. For a moment, Stiles felt his brain gearing up to run through all possible threats that could leave a mark on a werewolf for any length of time, before it ground to a halt as all the air punched out of his lungs, leaving him gaping like an idiot.

Because Isaac hadn't been injured by some new big bad out there, he'd been injured because Stiles had been so focused on Peter and the faint pack bond he felt with him, that he hadn't stopped to think about what the rest of the pack were currently going through.

Isaac was injured because he was still living with his father. When had Isaac's father started hitting him, anyway? How far had it progressed? He had no idea, and that was unacceptable. Isaac couldn't stay there any longer.

"Dude," Scott said, waving his hand in front of Stiles' face. "What's up?" Scott frowned at him, looking confused.

Blinking, Stiles realised that Isaac had moved on into the school. But that was okay, Stiles had been reminded that there were others than just Peter who needed him. Isaac would never know what hit him.

"Uh oh," Scott added.

"What?"

"That's your thinking face. You have your thinking face on. You know we always end up in trouble after you have your thinking face on."

"My plans," Stiles replied haughtily, "are perfectly amazing, thank you very much." Turning, he marched into the school, ignoring Scott's snort behind him. He had a packmate to protect.


	7. building a pack

"The problem," Stiles told Peter as he sat on the end of the werewolf's bed, staring across at where Peter sat, silent, in his chair, "is that, unlike I told Scott, I don't really have a plan." He dropped his pen down onto his bed. "How can I not have a plan?" he asked.

Peter remained silent.

Sighing, Stiles flopped backwards onto the bed so that he could stare up at the ceiling. "I mean, I can't believe I managed to get so focused on you that I forgot that the others need me as well. Not that you're not worth focusing on, or anything, just that, you know – they need me too. I guess, I just got so used to them being okay, after, you know, Derek bit them, if you discount all the issues that brought with it – but, I guess, I really only started hanging out with them after they were no longer in the bad situations they're in now that I didn't think about it too much.

"I mean, it's not like I looked at Isaac and thought, 'oh, his dad beats him and locks him in a freezer'! He was just Isaac. You know, 'oh, that's Isaac, he lives with Derek now, which, mind-blown! Derek as a guardian to someone!' Admittedly," he added, "Derek actually did a pretty decent job of it, in the end." He sighed. "And Erica – well, she was always just Catwoman, you know. And man, does she pack a mean punch – with parts of my car, by the way – that was totally unfair!" Waving his hands through the air, Stiles sat up. "And I'm rambling. But, the point remains. I need a plan."

* * *

Outside, in the corridor, a blonde teenager paused as she heard her name. She was dressed in hospital scrubs and had tearstains on her cheeks. Reaching up, she shoved her tangled hair back away from her face as she leant closer to the door.

Catwoman? What?

"Come on, Erica," a nurse said, coming up behind her. "Let's get you back to bed."

* * *

The next day at school, Stiles was jittery, jumping all over the place.

"Did you forget your adderall?" Scott asked. Blinking, Stiles turned from where he was almost-dancing in place in front of his locker.

"What?"

"Your adderall. You're really jumpy today."

"Oh, right." Nodding, Stiles watched as Isaac walked down the hall, his head ducked.

"Stiles?"

"I'm fine." Shutting his locker with a snap, Stiles turned and followed Isaac. It was lunchtime, and he was determined (he still didn't really have a great plan, but hey, he figured he could make it up as he went along – many of their lives had been saved in such a way in the past).

Frowning, Scott watched Stiles walk away, before hurrying after him. Stiles may be acting weird, but that was nothing new, and Scott was hardly about to abandon him.

They entered the cafeteria, where Stiles followed Isaac to the food line and then over to a table. Halfway there, Isaac gave him a confused and slightly scared look over his shoulder. Stiles just smiled back – which probably wasn't that encouraging, he admitted, seeing the way Isaac cringed.

However, when Stiles dumped his tray down on the table beside Isaac, the other boy looked up with a harsh glare much more reminiscent of his initial days of being a wolf.

"What?" Isaac bit out.

Stiles paused, before deciding to go with his planned approach anyway. "Hey Isaac!" he chirped happily.

Isaac frowned, eyes narrowing. "What do you want?" he asked. Stiles was suddenly reminded that Isaac worked in a graveyard. At night. Wait! Did Isaac work in the graveyard yet? Or did that come later?

Hesitantly, Scott sat down opposite them, giving Isaac a wary grin, but one totally working the puppy-dog eyes at the same time. Isaac deflated somewhat.

"Can't I just say hi?" Stiles asked.

"No," Isaac replied. "You never have before."

"Okay, so, before," Stiles admitted, waving his hands around wildly as a distraction, and to help himself gather his thoughts. "Forget about before. This is now, and this time, it's going to be better."

Isaac and Scott both gave him confused looks.

"Right," Stiles said, "let me try that again. Hi, I'm Stiles." He stuck his hand out, wiggling it at Isaac, who simply stared back at him. The bruise had changed colours somewhat from the previous day, but was still livid and dark against Isaac's pale skin. "This is the part where you shake my hand," Stiles prompted. "You know, like people do when they meet each other."

Slowly, as though half-afraid that Stiles was going to snatch his hand back at any moment – or perhaps hit Isaac with it – Isaac reached across the table, giving Stiles' hand a swift shake. He pulled back quickly, staring at him.

"Awesome!" Stiles declared. "Now, in the tradition that spans countless years, we can be friends." He grinned broadly.

"Friends?" Isaac asked.

"Dude," Scott complained, "why didn't you say we were going to be friends with Isaac?" Then, proving why he was Scott, he got up, moving around to the other side of the table and Isaac's other side, where he held out his hand with a grin.

Still looking as though he really had no idea what was going on, Isaac gingerly shook Scott's hand.

"Don't I get a say in this?" he asked.

"Nope," Stiles replied, grabbing some fries off Isaac's plate, but replacing them with the yoghurt he knew Isaac secretly loved. Isaac blinked, watching the action, before leaning back with a scowl and crossing his arms.

"I think I do," he said.

"You really don't," Scott replied. "I think, like, Lydia Martin is the only person to ever withstand the Stiles force."

"The Stiles force?" Isaac asked.

"What are you talking about?" Stiles shot back. "Not even Lydia could stand it in the end." He sprang to his feet, eyes seeking her out (next to Jackson), across the room.

"Uh, Stiles," Scott said. "You're still working on part one of your ten-year plan, aren't you? She hasn't even acknowledged you yet."

But Stiles wasn't listening. "Hey! Lydia!" he called. Automatically, her head came up and she turned to look in his direction with a frown. Stiles waved, turning back to the others even as Lydia dismissed him with a look of disdain. "See?" he said.

"Uh, dude, I see Lydia ignoring you like always," Scott replied.

"She does have a rather skillful aloofness to it," Isaac admitted. Scott grinned back at him.

"Yeah," he agreed. "But Stiles has 'A Plan'." He put the air quotes around it and everything.

Isaac rolled his eyes. "Good luck with that," he replied.

Meanwhile, Stiles sunk back down into his seat. He'd forgotten, for a moment, with Scott and Isaac right there, that Lydia didn't know him yet. Or anymore. His brain twisted itself up in knots every time he tried to figure out how best to think of it. Point was, as far as Lydia was concerned, he was still a non-entity.

Then he heard Scott's soft laughter, and saw the shy smile tugging at the corners of Isaac's lips. Giving himself a silent fist-pump, and ignoring the looks it earned him, Stiles decided that part one of his plan had gone off perfectly – or at least without any insurmountable hitches.

Time for part two.

"So, Isaac," he said, "now that we're friends and all, I feel you should know that Scott and I will be moving bookcases into Uncle Peter's room this weekend." He paused. Isaac had a wary and confused look on his face.

"Uncle Peter is a friend of Stiles' dad," Scott explained. "He's in a coma, has been for what, three years now?"

"Four," Stiles corrected. Isaac still looked confused. "You're coming," Stiles added. There was no need to give Isaac a way to weasel out of it. Besides his strength would come in handy when – but no, Isaac wasn't a wolf yet, so no super strength, Stiles corrected himself. Then he gave Isaac an assessing look – he still looked stronger than Stiles, so that was something.

"Stiles!" Scott complained. "You're invited," he corrected to Isaac.

"Coming," Stiles repeated. He smiled. "It's what friends do."

Isaac gave Scott a look. "I really don't have a choice, do I?" he asked.

"Nope," Scott admitted. "Why do you think I hang out with him?" Isaac cracked a smile at that, but Stiles spluttered.

"Excuse me?" he asked, "who is the one dragging me down to your nerd depths? If it wasn't for you I'd be... I'd be... the Jackson of the school, but not nearly so much a douche!"

Scott shook his head sadly. "Delusional," he said.

Stiles pouted. "You love me," he replied.

"Yeah," Scott replied with a shrug. Then he turned to Isaac to ask about their math homework and Stiles leant back with a grin as Isaac slowly answered (the fact that Stiles _may_ have overbalanced and fallen off over his chair was neither here nor there – he was a growing teen, stuff like that just happened to him, okay!)

* * *

"Ta da!" Stiles exclaimed, stepped back from the bookcase he had just helped his father and Scott shove up against the wall. Dusting his hands off on his jeans, he turned to grin at Peter. "What do you think?" he asked.

"Doesn't matter," the Sheriff replied, "that bookshelf is staying there." Stiles opened his mouth to protest, but the Sheriff just shook his finger in Stiles' face. "No, Stiles," he said. "I am not going to move it to every possible position in the room just so you can decide where it fits best."

Pouting, Stiles shot Peter a look, hoping for some help. "But what if Peter doesn't like it there?" he asked.

"Then he can wake up and tell us himself," his father replied.

There was a hesitant knock on the door. Glancing over, Stiles grinned broadly (and perhaps somewhat insanely). "Isaac!" he exclaimed.

"Isaac?" the Sheriff asked.

Isaac sunk backwards, hugging the slight shadows in the door frame.

"Isaac's our new friend," Scott explained, all innocent joy at this fact. Stiles could just hug him.

"Huh," the Sheriff replied, shooting Stiles a somewhat confused look (so Stiles had been a possessive and jealous bastard when it came to his friendship with Scott the last time around, didn't mean everyone had to be so surprised that he had grown and matured and could make new friends now!)

"Yep," Stiles agreed, popping the 'p', and reaching out to usher Isaac into the room with a fair amount of flailing. "He's here to help with the bookshelves."

The Sheriff sighed. "I hope you didn't coerce him into this, Stiles," he said. And really, as Stiles' father, the man really should have more faith in his son! Then, turning to Isaac, the Sheriff smiled. "It's nice to meet you, Isaac," he said. "Don't let my son talk you into anything you don't wanna do." Shaking his head, he moved out of the room. "Someone better come help me with the next bookshelf!" he called over his shoulder.

Rolling his eyes at his father's dramatics, Stiles watched as Isaac's eyes darted around the room. The other boy watched the Sheriff warily until he disappeared, and seemed wary of Peter as well, at first. Then he relaxed, seeming to realise that Peter really was in a coma and therefore couldn't do anything to him.

"So, anyway," Stiles explained, motioning to the comatose werewolf. "This is Uncle Peter."

"Hi," Isaac murmured softly.

"We're really glad you decided to come," Scott told him fervently. He smiled, bright and open. Isaac relaxed further. Stiles gave a silent fist-pump (and a quick glare to Peter to make sure he didn't say anything about the fist-pump).

"Oh!" Scott suddenly exclaimed, "your dad!" He raced out of the room, Stiles and Isaac following slowly after.

They managed to get three bookshelves set up in the room, before lugging in multiple boxes of books.

"I didn't really choose the books with too much thought," Stiles explained to Peter as they worked.

"Don't worry," Scott told Isaac, "Stiles never shuts up. You get used to it."

Stiles gave him a betrayed look at that, but continued on regardless. "I pretty much just grabbed whatever was closest," he explained. "Seeing as most of them were already boxed up, that helped too." Reaching into a box, he pulled out another book. "Huh," he said, turned it over to stare at it. "This isn't a mass-produced paperback designed for mindless reading. Still," he admitted, "this is more your style, I think." The book in his hand was old, the pages worn and yellowed with age. The cover was simple brown leather, nothing written on it. Reaching up, Stiles placed it on the shelf, before grabbing another.

One by one, he unearthed book after book, until they had filled all three bookshelves.

"Dude," Scott said at one stage, "Uncle Peter sure has a lot of fantasy books."

Stiles, who had been rambling about the benefits of leather versus sheepskin bindings for books (so he'd researched some weird topics in the past, no biggie), looked up. He hadn't thought much of it as they worked. It seemed so natural for Peter to have those things.

Ancient books, books on werewolves and magic and... eyes widening, Stiles stared at the bookshelves. Peter's library was a treasure trove. The kind of thing that Stiles would have killed for (had killed for, but he tried not to dwell on that) in the past – future – whatever.

This was... this was three bookshelves of resource material he could use. Old, worn books, some even written in other languages, which likely contained actual, factual knowledge about the strange world he had found himself in.

Other books, sources, written as mythologies or abstract accounts or historical records of local myths and legends, which, while they may be largely wrong in places, also likely contained nuggets of truth.

"Peter," Stiles breathed, "I think I love you."

Scott snorted, and Isaac gave him a wide-eyed look, but Stiles waved them aside. His fingers itched, eager to get at the wealth of knowledge spread out before him.

Scott sighed. "You're going to go on another research spree, aren't you?" he asked. Stiles nodded absently.

Just then, the Sheriff, who had left to find them some sandwiches, re-entered the room. "What's going on?" he asked, glancing around at them.

Scott groaned. "Stiles it going to read all the books," he said, motioned at the newly-filled shelves. The Sheriff raised an eyebrow. "_All_ the books," Scott repeated.

"Well," the Sheriff said, but he didn't seem to know what else to say to that, so he simply handed out their sandwiches, Isaac accepting his with a kind of wary thankfulness.

"It'll be awesome," Stiles declared, patting Peter on the shoulder as he moved over to accept his sandwich.

There wasn't much left to do after that. They packed up the empty boxes, and shoved them into a corner to be taken out when they were ready to leave.

"I've gotta head back to the station for a bit this afternoon," Stiles' dad explained, giving them all a look. "I've spoken to Melissa and she'll keep an eye out for you. If I'm not back by the time she gets off shift, you'll go home with her." Stiles nodded, only half-listening to what he considered to be oft-repeated words (Melissa had certainly done so in the past – and the future – although the number of times she did so increased once Scott's douche of a father was out of the picture). "Isaac," the Sheriff continued, "do you need a lift home? Melissa is happy to drop you off home if needed when she gets off shift? Or you could go back with the others?"

"I'm fine," Isaac murmured. And man, it made Stiles kinda miss the whole bad-boy persona thing Isaac had had going in the future/past/whatever, even if he had thought Isaac needed to tone it down a bit – which he did over time, thankfully.

"All right," the Sheriff replied. "Just ask if you need anything. Stiles knows how to contact me." Stiles waved one hand in acknowledgment at that. "It would be a good idea to work on your homework at some stage, too," the Sheriff added. Giving a nod, he stepped towards the door, before pausing and turning back. "I'll see you later, Peter," he said.

Grinning down at the book in his lap (liberated from Peter's new shelves), Stiles gave an internal fist-pump. He wasn't entirely sure how he was managing it, but somehow, slowly and surely, he seemed to be building a pack – or at least a kind of loose family (which was what pack was, really), around Peter.

By the time Melissa came to get them, Stiles had read through half a book, Scott and Isaac had worked through half their homework, and the sun was sinking towards the horizon.

"Homework done?" she asked, poking her head around the door frame.

"Mostly," Scott said, glancing up.

"Stiles?" Melissa asked, eyes lighting on his book.

"Hmmm? Oh," Stiles said, blinking his eyes rapidly as he looked up. "Did you know?" he asked, "that I was totally right? Werewolves are tactile beings!" He held up his book in triumph. "And it's especially important for those who have been injured."

Melissa blinked. Isaac turned to Scott with a questioning look. Scott sighed. "Stiles has found a new research topic," he explained.

Stiles felt he should perhaps be somewhat upset by the understanding look that immediately came over Melissa's face, but really, the information in the book he held was far too interesting, and important, for him to give it much thought.

"And your homework?" she asked.

"I'll do it later," Stiles replied, waving one hand. "I'm almost finished." Sighing, Melissa shook her head.

"Don't think I won't tell your father that promise," she said. Stiles ignored that, too. Because really, the book was starting to talk about pack bonds. This was pure gold! "Stiles!" Melissa snapped.

"Right, right," he agreed, "later." Sighing, and knowing when to pick her battles Melissa motioned for them to get up.

"Time to go, boys," she said. "You coming back with us Isaac? Or did you want me to drop you off home?"

"You don't mind me coming over?" Isaac asked, sounding both hesitant and hopeful all at once, even as he tried to hide it behind an unconcerned face. The sound made Stiles look up finally, pulled towards the vulnerability he heard in his packmate's voice. He needn't have worried.

"'Course not," Melissa replied. "And I make a mean pasta dish, so I can promise you won't go hungry if you stay for dinner."

"If, if it's not too much trouble."

"Not at all." Melissa smiled at him. Isaac relaxed further. Stiles wondered, briefly, when Isaac had lost his mother. He knew he had. Things like that had been known amongst the pack. But they didn't really talk about them. Not really. And if they did, it was in abstracts, or brief mentions. Nothing deep or serious. There had always (would always?) been too many other things to worry about.

"You don't mind if I borrow this, do you, Peter?" Stiles asked, pushing himself to his feet, and holding that book up. He paused, waiting, but Peter didn't reply. "Good," he said.

Grabbing his backpack and slinging it onto his back, he turned to follow the others from the room. Isaac lingered in the doorway, staring back at Peter.

"Maybe," he said softly. "Maybe, next time, we could take him outside for a bit?" he suggested hesitantly.

Stiles barely contained his happy dance. "Sure!" he agreed enthusiastically. "Great idea! Hey, do you think we could have, like, wheelchair races or something?"

"Stiles!" Melissa warned.

Laughing, and jostled between Scott and Isaac (deliberately ignoring Isaac's flinches until they lessened and turned into extremely gentle jostles back), Stiles left with the hospital with the brightest feeling he had had since he found himself back in the past.

Maybe, just maybe, everything would work out.

* * *

In the darkness, Peter felt another warmth join him, a soft, thin, barely there thread which pulsed and brushed up against him. _Pack_ his mind murmured contentedly, stretching.


	8. Better?

**A/N**: I need to learn how to write short fic – things that aren't one-shots and yet aren't epically-long novels, either. Because guys, guys, this was meant to be a short fic – not a one-shot, but not too long either. Only – the plots! All the plots! And the ideas! And the fact that I have chapter plans, but I never fit everything into a chapter that I want to! And so it just carries over and over and over and the number of chapters increases.

So, I'm sorry, but this looks like it's going to end up fairly long. You have been warned.

Also, another BIG thank you for all your comments and kudos, etc. Obviously, it's been a while since the last chapter. My apologies. Real life struck again – I spent the last week sick. So, I'm not gonna promise timeframes for updates, but I will promise that I haven't given up on this fic. And I will be updating it.

And, a BIG thank you to everyone who answered my question – I got a lot of responses which basically boiled down to – they could either be in grade 8 or 9, depends on their birthdays. So, I think for now, I'm going to assume they're in grade 9 (which may change depending on how the plot goes, but looks like it might work well)

(and I apologise in advance for the fact that I have now seen the new Captain America and will be slightly distracted by all the 'oooh shiny!' fic ideas I have for that – but I am determined not to let them hinder this fic)

**WARNING:** this chapter includes mentions of suicidal thoughts.

* * *

"Did you know," Stiles asked from where he was sprawled over Scott's bed, chewing absently on the end of a pen as his eyes continued to scan the pages in front of him, "that the ability of a werewolf to heal themselves is directly related to their pack? Like, say, Omegas, they don't actually heal really well. So that whole, 'it makes us stronger' thing is actually legit. But not just in strength, but also, like, in healing ability and senses, and... well, according to this, anyway." Looking up, he blinked to see the faces staring back at him. "What?" he asked.

Scott sighed. "Are you going to thoroughly educate us on werewolves for the next week or so?" he asked.

And oh, that was right, Stiles remembered. Scott and Isaac didn't _know_ yet. "Nope," he replied.

Scott stared at him in shock.

"At least the next month, possibly longer," Stiles continued easily. "There will be _tests!_"

Scott groaned.

"Tests?" Isaac asked. He'd relaxed slowly over the time spent at Scott's, so that he no longer looked as though he was going to vibrate apart from the tension of holding himself together. "Can he do that?" He looked to Scott.

"He once gave me a pop test on DC versus Marvel," Scott whined, pressing his face into the carpet where he was sprawled on the floor beside Isaac.

"That doesn't sound too bad," Isaac ventured.

"What?" Scott asked, head shooting up.

"Well, I mean, that's easy, right?" Isaac said, glancing between them. Grinning, and not even looking up from his book, Stiles held up his hand for a fist-bump. He counted it as a major win when, after a long moment, Isaac complied (Stile's fist-pump in celebration was -almost- entirely internal).

"But seriously," Stiles said, waving his book in the air, "according to this, the bonds between packmates actually strengthen each individual wolf... kinda, kinda like how three people can lift something that weighs more than the sum of what each person can lift individually? Only, because the packbonds are there, that strength is always available. BUT – it's increased the closer they are. So, say, if you have a pack spread over a large geographical area, then the bonds spend up some of their strength in reaching between them, losing strength the further away from each other they are. And the closer they are, then the stronger the bonds.

"So, an injured wolf is often surrounded by the pack – quite literally – until they heal." He glanced up with another grin. It threatened to slip at the uncomprehending faces that looked back at him, but Stiles refused to let that happen, forcing his grin to stay. They may not have the same knowledge and memories as the people he remembered, but they were still them. And they were _alive_. That alone made up for everything else.

"This is, this is," he said, waving his arms around and unable to fully articulate it to them. How could he? How could he explain the importance of finding this out? This was the information they had been missing out on last time. The solid evidence that said, yes, this is what you need to do. This will make you stronger. This will heal you.

Oh, sure, they'd tried. They'd all tried in the end. Derek – who tried so hard, even as Stiles could see the cracks forming underneath, the fear he never dared let show, the way he scrabbled for knowledge and control he had never been taught – because Derek was never meant to be Alpha. That had never been in the plans his family made.

Peter – so broken and, quite frankly, creepy, who didn't seem to know how to do anything else than get revenge – at least at first. But even that was born of the need to protect the pack. Peter, who struggled to remember anything other than pain and fire and revenge.

Scott – who simply couldn't understand, refused even, at times, to understand, what was happening to him. What was needed. But desperately trying, all the same, to do what was right. Confused because he saw the wolf as wrong, when Derek and the others saw the wolf as simply part of themselves. So desperate to save lives.

Isaac – so hurt and scared and lashing out at others in order to feel in control

Erica – so alive and bright, and emotionally wounded, unsure how to deal with her newfound physical strength

Boyd – so lonely and then so quiet, watching and waiting, steady and loyal, but still lonely

Even Jackson – so desperate to be perfect, to be the best, always striving to prove himself

And Lydia – Lydia, who was like him. Thrown into the whole thing because of her friendships, struggling in a world full of monsters and hunters and things that went bump in the night. Lydia, afraid of herself, and hiding, for so long

Danny – Danny, who Stiles barely got to know before he was gone. Danny, who he thought was perhaps the only sane, sensible one of them all. The only one not fighting himself even before it all started.

They'd tried so hard to make it work, to pull together, to become a Pack, to save each other. And in the end, it hadn't been enough.

But that was okay – because Stiles was here once more. He had a second chance, and there was no way he was going to let that chance slip through his fingers.

"Stiles!"

Blinking, Stiles looked up to where Scott leant over him, frowning and clicking his fingers in his face. "What?" he asked.

Scott rolled his eyes. "Mom's calling us," he said. "You want a lift home? Or are you gonna stay the night?"

"Home," Stiles decided. Mind racing to try and remember if there was anything else he was meant to be doing. The edges of his eyes prickled and smarted, and he hoped that Scott couldn't see any of that in his face. Because remembering – well, it hurt. So, most of the time, he tried not to. Especially in front of others.

"Okay," Scott agreed, giving him a strange look. He paused. "You know you can tell me anything, right?"

"Yeah, yeah, Scott, I know," Stiles said, forcing a smile as he pushed himself up from the bed.

* * *

Standing behind his closed front door, listening to the sound of Scott's Mom pulling away in her car, the headlights flashing across the windows as she did so, Stiles breathed deeply.

He felt jittery, unsettled. His thoughts earlier had strayed too much into _before_. Running one hand over his head, he sighed, turning to the side where the car keys were kept. They weren't there.

Leaning his head against the wall, Stiles pushed down a half-sob, half-laugh. He couldn't drive yet. He felt as though he was flying into pieces. Holding onto his ragged edges with just his fingernails.

And there was no-one who he could go to, no-one who would even understand.

Shaking his head, Stiles pushed himself away from the wall. Half-determined, half-acting on autopilot, he made his way back outside and round to where his bike was chained. Shaking fingers unlocked the chain, then, before he could think too much about it, he swung himself up onto the seat and pushed off.

The night air whipped around him, stinging harshly against the tears upon his cheeks. His breath was rapid and uneven, heaving through his lungs. He peddled as though he could somehow outrun the past – future – chasing after him, dark shadows in the night.

* * *

"It's strange to think, that this is where I come now," Stiles said, scrubbing one hand over his face before climbing up onto the bed beside Peter. "There was a time I wouldn't have come within ten feet of you – no, even further away than that, 'cos you were _fast_ – if I could help it. And now I'm here..." he let his voice trail off as he shifted, staring up at the ceiling above him, tracing shadows with his eyes.

"Thing is, you and me, we're kinda all each other has. Well, no, we've also got Scott, and Isaac now, too." He sighed. "I guess, maybe because you can't talk back, it seems okay to tell you things. Things I'd have to explain if I tried to tell the others. And I don't know if I can explain, not yet...

"Have you ever done something, something so insane and crazy that you wondered whether, in doing it, you were actually doing something else?" He laughed dryly. "I bet that doesn't even make sense. See, the thing is... the thing is, we were desperate." His voice broke and he had to clear his throat. "I know that everyone get's desperate sometimes. But this, this was _desperate_. This wasn't failing a test at school, or disappointing your parents, or even, even, watching someone you love die.

"This was watching them all die.

"I knew about the pack bonds, you know, before reading that book. I felt them die. Knew they were important. Knew they made you stronger - but we always focused on strength in fighting. Still, the other stuff makes sense.

"After we started dying – one by one – we all started healing slower. I used to think that maybe it was my 'spark' that made me heal faster than a normal human, now I'm not so sure. Maybe it was both. Or neither. How would I know?

"That's all I have really, guess-work, and books, and silence." He turned to face Peter, propping his head up on one hand as he spoke. He was on Peter's left. From this angle, he couldn't see the scars, the burn marks, that dragged against the other side of Peter's face.

"I don't like remembering it," he said. "Which is stupid, really, considering I need to remember it. That's what I'm here for, isn't it? To remember? No-one else does. Just me.

"That's why I was sent back. Because we were desperate... so desperate that it didn't matter that I could have died." Closing his eyes, Stiles pushed back against the tears he cold feel filling them. "Sometimes," he whispered, "I wonder whether I wanted to die. Whether it would have mattered if I had died. If I would have cared. I felt like I didn't have anything left to care with."

Shaking his head, Stiles turned onto his back, staring once more at the ceiling.

"So I suppose it was stupid," he said. "What we did. Stupid and desperate and it worked." He laughed. "Sometimes I imagine telling someone, well, someone other than you. No offense. But who would I tell? Dad would never believe me, and I can't burden him with that, not _now_." His voice cracked once more, but he pressed on. "Or Scott. But how could I prove anything to him? Isaac? We've barely started talking this time round. And Lydia – she doesn't even know I exist yet.

"Which leaves you – who can't ask me questions or to explain myself, but you also can't talk back. Give me any advice." He paused. "You know, this would be a really good time for you to suddenly decide to wake up," he said. Then grinned, a tear splashing between his parted lips to trace salt along his tongue. "Still, if you did wake up, you'd probably give me a heart attack – 'cos seriously dude, give a guy some warning, right? - and then I'd be the one in need of a hospital bed." He sighed.

Reaching over, Stiles, let his fingers rest over Peter's. "I've got to think that I'm back here for a reason," he said. "That this time isn't random. That there's something important I'm missing. Some reason the spell sent me back here, instead of earlier – or later.

"We spent so long – as long as we could afford while running for our lives, at least – t rying to make sure we got it right. We only had the one try, after all. And it sent me here." Frowning, Stiles shifted, leaning his head against Peter's shoulder. "Why here?" he asked.

Shudder shooting through him with the thought, Stiles flung himself upright, turning to stare down at Peter. "Is that it?" he asked. "Is that why?" His arms waved wildly through the air before he managed to calm them enough to, at least, prevent himself from taking his own head off.

"The book said that werewolves heal faster, and not just faster, but _better_, with their pack around them. That the closer the pack is, the stronger the pack bonds, and therefore the more strength they have to draw on." He paused, gaping down at Peter. Then he shook his head.

"But we're not pack," he said. "Scott hasn't been bitten yet, or Isaac, or... Derek used to say that being human didn't exclude you from the pack – well, no, Derek used to say, 'don't be an idiot, Stiles, the Hale pack has always had humans in it', or, when he was feeling particularly nice, 'of course you're part of the pack, Stiles, you fit the pattern – stubborn, annoying, and an idiot'." Stiles grinned as he tried to make his voice mimic Derek's, turning to Peter to see his reaction. Peter remained still.

"So maybe," he said, "maybe we can be pack. But can we? Without you or Derek – or heck, I suppose it's Laura at the moment – making us pack? Can we be pack just by being here?" Closing his eyes, gripping his hands tight into fists, Stiles reached down into himself.

Into that part that _ached_ each time they lost someone, as though something was breaking loose, snapping, inside him.

It was small, small and weak and new – but it was there, layered on top of the old hurts, the scars. A bright, warm, pulse of something.

"Oh," he gasped. Eyes flying wide open, Stiles stared at Peter. "This is why I'm here, now," he said, "it has to be. Because you need me. You need a pack. One that's here." Reaching out, he tentatively smoothed his hand over Peter's face. "Will it help?" he asked. "Will make you wake up faster? _Better_?"

* * *

Stiles woke to sunshine washing over his face and the noise of early morning rounds at the hospital. Eyes flying wide, he bodily flung himself over the side of the bed with a, "Shit! Shit! Shit! - Ow!"

Groaning, Stiles rolled onto his back and then sat up, rubbing at his shoulder, elbows and knees. "Not a word," he told Peter sternly, before peeking over the bed and towards the door. He knew he was incredibly lucky he'd not been discovered during the night. "Okay," he muttered.

Reaching over, Stiles grabbed the phone (he was fairly sure it was his father who had arranged for it) which had been placed in the room specifically for Peter to receive calls.

Quickly, furtively, he dialed Scott's number.

"Hello?"

"Hey, Mrs McCall," Stiles chirped, while still trying to keep his voice down.

"Stiles," she said on a sigh. "I suppose you want to talk to Scott?"

"Yep."

"And it can't wait until you see him at school?"

"Uh, no, not really," he admitted.

"All right." There was a pause, a faint call of "Scott!" and then the sound of the phone passing hands.

"Stiles?" Scott asked, "what's wrong?"

"Soooo," said Stiles, dragging the sound out. "I stayed at your house last night."

"Yeah," agreed Scott, "you and Isaac. Then Mom drove you both home -"

"No," Stiles cut in, "I stayed at your house last night. All night," he added, in case Scott hadn't got it yet.

"Oh. Okay," Scott agreed. "Why?"

"Tell you later. Just... if Dad wakes up and I'm not there – you gotta back me up on this."

"You know I will." Scott sounded almost hurt by the implication that he wouldn't. "You need me to man the phone in case he calls here this morning?"

"Yeah, yeah, that would be great."

"Are you going to be at school?"

"Yeah, just, if you could bring me a spare change of clothes – it would save some embarrassment."

Scott laughed. Stiles rolled his eyes. The sounds from outside the room were getting closer.

"I gotta go," he hissed. "And Scott, thanks."

"Sure," Scott replied.

Hanging up, Stiles thrust the phone back into position before pushing himself to his feet and straightening his clothes. Carrie looked up as she came in.

"Stiles?" she asked. "Bit early for a visit, isn't it?"

Stiles shrugged. "Just popping in before heading to school. I'll see you later, Peter," he added, as he moved towards the door.

Shaking her head, Carrie watched him go.

* * *

"Clothes," Scott said, holding out a backpack to Stiles, "and some paper and pens so that you don't look completely unprepared for class."

"You, are a lifesaver!" Stiles exclaimed, taking it from him. He ducked his head, trying to ignore Scott's curious eyes.

"Sooo?" Scott asked.

"So?"

"Where were you?"

Stiles shrugged. "I just... I needed to clear my head. Things got a bit much." Scott's expression softened, and Stiles cringed inwardly as he realised that Scott thought he was talking about his mother. Which caused another pang – at her loss – to race through him. "Anyway," he added, turning and striding into the school, "I have a feeling that today is going to be a great day."

Someone brushed past them, hurrying down the corridor. Stiles frowned, turning to watch. Scott continued to walk, oblivious to what was happening.

But this wasn't the Stiles of the past, this was a Stiles who remembered so much more – and there was something about the way the other person moved. Hurried and furtive all at once.

There was a hushed, frantic conversation, Stiles realised, just down the hall. In one of the side-rooms. Students spilling into classrooms ready for the first lesson of the day.

Without conscious thought, he found himself moving, heading in that direction.

"Stiles?" Scott asked.

Pushing through the people around him, shoving at those crowded at the doorway, Stiles came to a sudden halt. His breath, already harsh and panicked, caught in his throat. There was a dull roaring in his ears – something he hadn't felt, not properly, since coming back to the past. Oh, he almost had, when looking at Peter's burns, or Isaac's bruises. But this was something more, the rush and throb of adrenalin, the roar of anger and fear, the all-consuming determination that gripped him before going into battle for the lives of his pack.

Erica. It was Erica.


	9. this is why I'm here

WARNING: for description of a seizure. Please be aware if this is triggering for you.

(and I'm not expert on seizures, so hope I didn't get anything majorly wrong with that)

* * *

Erica was lying on the floor, body convulsing through a seizure. Without conscious thought, Stiles stepped closer. It was some time since he had helped Erica through a seizure (he had never yet helped her), but not so long that he didn't remember what to do.

"Do we put something in her mouth?" someone asked.

"Maybe?" someone else suggested.

There was snickering from behind them.

"Hey!" Scott exclaimed, glaring at the culprits. But Stiles' attention was fully on Erica. In the back of his mind he knew that he was reacting in a way he never would have if he hadn't travelled back in time – just his knowledge of what to do for her was more than he would have had otherwise. But it was more than that.

It was the way his senses heightened, sharpened. The way he knew, without having to think about it, that there were twenty people crowded into the room. Three looked anxious, but ignorant, arguing over what they should do. Five were snickering in a small group. Seven were just kind of standing, helplessly. One was mimicking Erica for the laughter of his two friends, and the last two were filming her.

He knew that there was only one entrance and exit, which he and Scott had just pushed through. Knew that those around them weren't a threat, not really. They were minor considerations, catalogued and stored away for when he would deal with them – later, once he knew Erica was okay.

He knew that Scott was at his back, scowling at those who were making fun of her.

_Good, _his mind whispered. _Scott can deal with them, while I help Erica._ Distantly, he knew there was something wrong with that reasoning. Something he had to remember (that Scott didn't know yet, had no idea), but he was too focused on Erica, on the situation, to worry about that.

"No!" He snapped, as one of the girls reached forward, something clasped in her hand as she moved towards Erica's mouth. His hand shot out, grasping hers tightly. She gasped, eyes widening as she stared at him.

"Hang on," one of the others said, "it says here not to put anything in her mouth."

Ignoring her, Stiles already knew all that, he reached out, placing his hand on her shoulder, and _pushed_.

It burned. He gasped. Oh, that was right. Erica wasn't pack. Not yet. Not in any way other than the fact that Stiles himself still carried the broken and scarred wound from his pack-bond with her.

But that didn't matter. That spark inside of him, that spark that he'd barely used since coming back to the past (it had been so exhausted, so weak, so tired, and he was, honestly, somewhat afraid of what he might do with it), surged.

He could feel the warmth curling up within him, shooting out from that place inside where his pack-bonds lived. Reaching, reaching, reaching out. It twined down his arm, through his fingers, and into Erica.

Her seizures slowed, but didn't stop.

Slowly, Stiles began to consciously take in the rest of the information that had been pushed aside in his rush to help her. The laughter, the now-gaping students who were staring at him, knelt down beside her.

With a last shudder, Erica's body came to a halt. Looking across at the worried girls on Erica's other side, Stiles frowned.

"Fetch the nurse," he said. His voice came out harsh, authoritative. It was a voice that was used to being obeyed. A voice he'd used countless times before (never used before) in battle.

They nodded, scrambling to their feet and scurrying away. He turned his head. Scott had unleashed the full force of the 'Scott McCall is disappointed in you' look on the snickerers. They had stilled and were now looking uncomfortable as Stiles' gaze swept over them.

He dismissed them. They were not a threat. Not currently.

But his mind was stirring, remembering. Remembering bitter words spoken to cover up the hurt beneath. Remembering...

His gaze narrowed in on the two with the phone.

"Stiles?" Scott asked, he sounded hesitant.

Stiles reached out his free hand (his other one still pressed to Erica, their connection pulsing through it). "Give me that," he said. His voice was flat, dead.

With a wary glance at each other, and then back at him, the two complied. As soon as he had it in his hand, Stiles glanced down at the phone. His first instinct was to throw it away from him, to smash it. To completely destroy something that he knew had (would) hurt Erica so badly.

But he wasn't just an impulsive teen (even if being back in time, back in his teenage body, made those impulses harder to ignore). He had lived through so much more than this. Knew how to think, and judge his decisions.

Flicking up the video, Stiles deleted it, making sure they could see what he was doing. The boys scowled, but something in his face must have warned them off, as they said nothing. Calmly, Stiles reached out his hand, holding the phone out for them to take back.

Reaching forward, the taller boy clasped it. Stiles let a small smirk cross his lips, felt the tingle in his fingers, and released it, glancing back down to Erica.

He looked back up at everyone in the room. "Get out," he said, voice flat. There was a pause, Stiles scowled. "Get. Out." he repeated.

With a flurry of movement, the students fled. At the same time, there was the sound of voices and footsteps from the corridor, and suddenly the nurse and principle burst into the room, followed by the two girls who had left to get them.

"Mr, Stilinski?" the Principle questioned. His eyes seemed drawn to where Stiles' hand lay, gently stroking Erica's hair beneath his fingers. Even Scott looked confused (of course Scott was confused, he didn't know yet).

"Sir," Stiles replied. He shuffled back a bit, but didn't remove his hand from Erica completely. The bond hummed beneath his fingers, and he wasn't entirely sure what would happen if he let go. To be honest, he wasn't entirely sure what he had done to create it in the first place.

The next few moments were filled with the bustle of the principle calling an ambulance as the nurse moved around Erica, checking on her. She sat back with a sigh.

"She seems better than usual," she muttered, and Stiles felt a pang of guilt. How many times? How many times had Erica experienced a seizure at school, and he'd been completely oblivious to it? And her?

"Mr Stilinski," the Principle said, approaching him, "we can take it from here. Why don't you head to class."

Stiles just looked up at him. He could hear the words, could even, in some way, understand them. But he just... froze. He couldn't let go of her. Couldn't let Erica be taken to the hospital by herself. Couldn't let her out of his sight, not when she'd just gone through that, and he could still remember the scent of her blood on the back of his tongue as she bled out beneath his hands.

"Shouldn't someone go with her?" Scott asked, stepping forward. "To the hospital, I mean."

"Her parents have been called," the Principle explained, "they'll meet her there."

Scott cast Stiles a helpless look, eyes wide and concerned. Stiles said nothing.

Biting his lip, and looking incredibly uncomfortable, Scott drew the Principle to the side. "It's just," he said, staring at Stiles, "I think, maybe, it's something to do with his Mom." The Principle frowned. "I mean," Scott continued, "she... Stiles spent so long with her. Tried to help her. Did everything he could. I just... maybe seeing her like this," he indicated Erica, "has brought up some of that."

The Principle frowned. "I can't let him go in the ambulance," he said. "I can call his father to come get him."

Scott frowned, before nodding lightly.

The EMTs arrived, bustling Erica up and away on a stretcher. Her eyes had opened, but were dulled, vague. A common reaction, Stiles knew, after she had a seizure. She would go through a period of unconsciousness, followed by a period where she was awake, but not really aware, confused.

He reached out, trying to keep hold of her, but someone held him back. He closed his eyes, cringing, as his fingers left her shoulder, before letting his breath out in a rush. The bond was still there. It was faint, and weak, but there.

He didn't have to go through feeling it snap and break – die – once more. He wasn't sure he could live through that again.

"Stiles?" Scott asked. Blinking, Stiles realised that Scott was pressed up against his side, all concerned glances and worried eyes.

"I'm okay," he muttered.

The nurse was staring down at the wet patch on the floor. She sighed. "Guess I'll have to clean this up," she muttered, a hint of disgust in her voice.

Stiles rounded on her. "Get me a mop and bucket, then!" he snapped.

Instinctively, she took a step back, eyes wide as she stared at him.

"You think you have it so bad," Stiles hissed, "you think she does any of this on purpose? How dare you -"

"Stiles," Scott repeated, half-worried, half-afraid.

"Mr Stilinski," the Principle said, voice firm, "perhaps you'd best step outside."

"Yeah, yeah," Stiles agreed. His head was ringing and his spark hummed beneath his skin, twisting. His vision was a little blurry, and he knew, intellectually, that he was likely going into shock. His skin pricked and he shivered.

Outside, in the corridor, a few students were still lingering.

"Hey!" Someone snapped as he stepped out. Looking up, Stiles spotted the boy with the phone. He tilted his head to the side. "What did you do to my phone?" He held said phone up angrily, jabbing at the screen, which was suspiciously blank.

Ignoring him, Stiles turned his back, walking down the corridor.

"Stiles!" Scott called after him. "Stiles!" When Stiles made no move to stop or turn around, Scott hurried after him, exiting the main doors just in time to see Stiles swing himself up onto his bike and take off down the road.

A moment later, Stiles' dad pulled up in the cruiser. "Scott?" he asked, worry etched across his face. "Where's Stiles? I got a call from the school."

Scott shook his head. "He took off," he said. "There... there was some girl at school. I, I'm not even sure what her name is. Evie or Erica or something. I – she had a seizure. Stiles got real upset by it. There were," he scrubbed his hand over his face, appearing devastated by the cruelty he'd witnessed. "There were people laughing at her, someone else actually _filmed_ it. Stiles, Stiles got mad. And he was acting weird, kind of out of it." Scott stared up at the Sheriff. "I don't know what to do," he said, voice cracking. "He's been so different since..." he let his voice trail off, not wanting to say it. The Sheriff nodded. "He wanted to go in the ambulance with her, but they wouldn't let him," Scott explained, "and now he's just taken off," he gestured towards the empty road in front of the school.

"The hospital?" the Sheriff suggested.

Scott shrugged. "Yeah, I guess." He said. "He really seemed like he wanted to go with her. But I don't know why – far as I know, Stiles doesn't really know her either. I mean, I know she's in a couple of our classes, but that's it."

"It's okay Scott," the Sheriff assured him, pulling him in for a quick hug, before steering him towards the cruiser. "We'll find Stiles, and we'll figure this out." He fished his cell phone out of his pocket. "Now, give your mom a call and let her know you're with me." He pushed Scott to take a seat in the car. "I'll clear you both from lessons for the rest of the day. Be right back."

* * *

Reaching the hospital, Stiles dumped his bike, not bothering to chain it up, as he raced inside. He could feel the adrenalin rushing through him, and knew he probably looked somewhat wild, but he couldn't seem to stop himself.

Everything in him was telling him to get to Erica, to ensure that she was safe. To be there for her. To not let her die – again.

He knew it was just a seizure (there was nothing just about it). He knew that she had lived through dozens and dozens of them in the past (and future). He knew that she had lived through this one before – and that without the help of a pack-bond, as weak as it was.

But none of that knowledge seemed to matter.

He found her in a room not too far from Peter's, lying on her back and staring up at the ceiling. They'd changed her into a flimsy hospital gown, and there were tear-tracks on her cheeks. Nearby, Stiles could hear her parents speaking with a doctor.

Before he knew it, he'd slipped into her room, closing the door behind him and stepping up by the bed. Erica stiffened, hearing him come in, and her eyes shot to his – before widening in surprise.

"Stiles?" she asked. "What? What are you doing here?" Then her gaze hardened, eyes turning flinty. "Come to laugh?" she asked.

And oh, there was that familiar sneer. It made Stiles want to smile – to hear and see something just so Erica. But he held it back.

"No," he said. "I came to see how you were."

"Why?"

Why had he come? Because he shared a pack-bond with her that compelled him to come? Because he'd seen her die (in the future) and didn't want to go through that again? Because it was the decent thing to do? Because she was his packmate? None of those answers seemed adequate enough, particularly when he doubted that she would believe any of them.

So instead he shrugged. Her eyes narrowed further.

"You can leave now," she said.

"You, you are okay, aren't you?" Stiles blurted out, before shoving his hand across his mouth as though to stop the words from falling out.

Erica eyed him in wary confusion.

"Fine," she said. "I've lived through this before, you know."

"I know," he admitted.

Pushing herself upright, Erica stared at him. "I do have a question for you," she said.

"Yeah?"

"Catwoman?"

Stiles gaped at her. "What?"

"You called me Catwoman," she said. "I heard you – it took me ages to place your voice, but I know it was you. You were talking to someone else here in the hospital, and you called me Catwoman. Why?"

Gaping at her, Stiles flailed his hands around through the air for a moment, at a loss for words. Erica didn't look impressed. So he decided to go for the truth.

"Because you are," he said. Something in his expression must have told her that he was being serious, because she sat back with a frown. But it wasn't a frown that said she didn't believe him, more one that said she wasn't sure what to do with what he'd said.

Glancing around the room nervously, Stiles tapped his fingers against the side of the bed. He opened his mouth a couple of times before closing it, realising that he really didn't know what to say to her. Not to this version of her, anyway. The one who didn't know him yet. Didn't know anything about werewolves. Hadn't been through any of the things they'd been through together.

"Peter!" he exclaimed suddenly, turning back to her.

Erica frowned. "What?"

"Peter," Stiles repeated. "That's who I was talking to. Peter Hale. He's in the long-term care ward, just down there," he waved his hand towards the door, in the direction of Peter's room.

"Long-term care?"

"Yeah, he, uh, he's in a coma. Has been for a while."

Erica nodded.

"So, uh, so, they going to let you out of here soon?" he asked. Erica shrugged.

"I doubt it," she said, eyes still slightly narrowed as though trying to figure him out. "They usually keep me for a while at least." She grimaced, poking at her hospital gown. "I hate these things."

"Oh!" said Stiles. Grabbing his backpack, he brought it around, pulling the zip open. "Clothes!" he declared happily, pulling out the spare set of clothing he'd had Scott bring to school for him. He grinned manically at her. "They're clean," he added. "I promise. And gotta be better than that gown. Those things never quite close properly at the back."

Erica blushed. Actually blushed. For a moment, Stiles was so taken aback that he didn't know what to do. So he went with his default, and babbled.

"I mean, I know they're guys clothes and all, but still, better than that, right?" He grinned, shaking the clothes at her. "And I mean, I'm pretty sure they're not going to give you your clothes back just yet." Erica's face fell and she looked down, the blush growing, spreading, but Stiles knew it was now one of mortification. "But the way I figure it," he continued desperately, "you'll look better in these than I ever would, anyway. I mean, you look good in anything. I mean, you can pull anything off. You don't actually need clothes to make you look good. Not that I'm suggesting you not wear clothes. Clothes are good. Or not. Depending on what you're into. 'Cos if you're not into them, then that is cool, too. I'm totally not judging here. No judging at all. I just -"

Erica laughed. It bubbled up out of her and Stiles froze, staring at her in surprise.

_This,_ he thought fiercely, _this is why I'm here. So that Peter can heal. And Erica can laugh. So that Isaac can feel safe, and Boyd can know friendship. _

He'd never heard her laugh like that before (past or future). It was beautiful.

"Sorry," he mumbled, rubbing the back of his head. "I, uh, I tend to babble a bit, sometimes. You can, uh, you can feel free to stop me at anytime. Anytime. I'm serious. Stopping me is a good thing. A really good thing. And totally worth your while when I get started and don't seem to stop. 'Cos that happens, sometimes, and -"

Erica laughed once more.

Grinning, Stiles plopped down on the bed next to her.

"Thank you," she said. Reaching out she grabbed onto his spare clothing. "And you're right, it is better than a hospital gown." She bit her lip, staring at him. "I didn't think you knew who I was," she admitted.

Stiles glanced down. "I, uh, not one of my best moments," he said. He knew he wasn't making much sense, but really didn't know how to explain it to her. He glanced up. "I'd like to get to know you," he said. "If that's okay."

This time, when she blushed, he felt the alarm bells going off in his head. "Sure," she said.

"I should warn you," he continued, feeling the press of words rising up in him once more as he scrabbled for something to say. Something that wouldn't harm her already severely low self-esteem, but would also mean that he wouldn't be leading her on (he remember now, her telling him that she'd had a crush on him – it was a foreign thought, after everything they'd been through, all they'd survived together, that she'd ever thought of him like that, but she had). "That I can be annoying. Like, really annoying. I talk a lot – point in case. And about anything. Everything. I will tell you things you never wanted to know. And in great detail."

Erica just continued to smile shyly, staring up at him in something like awe.

"About – about things like boys!" he declared. "Because I like them. Boys, that is. Well, more men really. Ones with muscles. And personalities – I'm not completely shallow. I mean, it's not that I dislike women. I like them, a lot. But I'm pretty sure I like men more. Like a 80/20 thing, biased towards men, rather than the 50/50 thing I used to think it was."

Erica laughed once more. There was something in her eyes that told Stiles she understood, and while it hurt, she wouldn't hold it against him.

"It's all Derek's fault," he continued, words spilling over each other in their rush to get out. "I mean, where does he get off, walking around with those perfect muscles and that crazy stubble and those eyes – have you ever seen eyes like that? I mean -"

"Who are you?"

Looking up, Stiles stared at the couple standing in the doorway. Erica's parents.

"Uh -"

"This is Stiles," Erica said, a soft smile (one Stiles had never seen before) on her face.

"Right, right," Stiles said, pushing himself to his feet and wiping his hands on his jeans before holding his right one out for a handshake. "Sorry," he said. "I just stopped by to check on Erica."

"How do you know Erica?" her father asked.

"School," Erica replied. "Stiles made sure they got the nurse this morning when..." her voice trailed off and she glanced down.

"Hey," said Stiles, reaching out and nudged against her shoulder. "Don't sweat it. I mean, we all have our burdens to bear, right. Mine goes by the name of Scott McCall and looks like a puppy." For a moment Erica looked as though she wasn't sure whether she wanted to yell at him or laugh – the laughter won out.

Shooting a glance at her parents, Stiles saw that they appeared dumbfounded by her laughter. A warm feeling of pride blossomed in his chest.

"Anyway," he said, "I should let you rest. Get better soon, Catwoman."

"Sure thing, Batman," she replied. Grinning, Stiles held his hand up for a high-five, which Erica granted, before nodding to her parents and slipping out of her room.

Erica watched him go with a thoughtful look on her face. Reaching up, she unconsciously rubbed over her chest where something warm and bright curled within her. She wasn't sure why, or even if it was a good idea, but something inside her told her to trust him.

* * *

"Ugh!" Stiles exclaimed flopping backwards onto Peter's bed. The werewolf made no sound or move, but Stiles reached up to pat against his calf anyway. He made a face. "I think I did something stupid," he said. "Something to do with my spark. Something I've never done before – and I'm not even sure how I did it.

"But I think I made a pack-bond with Erica." He shook his head. "I didn't even know that could be forced like that... only maybe it can't, maybe it was just opening up the old pack-bond I had with her. Only that would have had to have been one-sided, me to her, because she never really met me before. I was the only one to come back in time." He groaned, turning his head to look at Peter.

"Sometimes I scare myself," he admitted. "Some of the things we did. I did. It was war, and we were, I was, scared. And I wanted to survive. But my spark – some of the things I did..." his voice trailed off and he stared at the ceiling.

Suddenly, Stiles sat up, eyes widening. "Oh crap!" he exclaimed. "I think I just came out to Erica!" He turned wide-eyes on Peter. "I just told her I like guys! And that it's all Derek's fault! Which it is – honestly, abs like that should not be legal. And really, do you think you could have a word to your nephew about the amount of time he spends wandering around without a shirt on? Does he even do that yet?" Stiles waved one hand, brushing that thought away. "Then again," he added, tilting his head to one side, "don't say anything. Lots of people will thank you if you just let him keep doing it."

He groaned, flopping dramatically backwards once more and pressing his hands to his face, so that his next words were muffled. "And now I'm fourteen again! He's never going to look at me now! This is so unfair!" There was a pause. "I can still admire his abs, though," he decided.

* * *

In the darkness, Peter felt the bond form, tenuous and wavering, like an echo reaching him through another bond. The echo of another, pulsing down and pressing against him. He rolled, stretching into the feeling, holding it tight and pulling it towards him. Warmth and care and love and pack.


End file.
